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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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THE ROMANCE 



THE UNEXPECTED 



DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 



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NEW YORK AND LONDON 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

W(^% Knickerbocker 3|ress 
1887 



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73 



COPYRIGHT BY 

DAVID SKAATS FOSTER 
1886 



Press of 

G. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York 




CONTENTS. 



^PAGE 

The Noah's Ark i 

Mariquita . . .10 

The Old Spinning-Wheel 14 

Summer Thoughts 17 

Galatea 18 

The Reading of the Tale 19 

The Portrait 20 

The Cricket 21 

The Rose 22 

The Voices of the Wood 23 

An Autumn Fancy . ... . . .24 

A Winter Fancy 25 

At Break of Day 26 

The Haunted House 28 

Santa Trinidad 30 

Then and Now 33 

The Old, Old Home 35 

My Friend . . 37 

At Alden's 39 

On the Death of a Child Four Years Old . . 42 

The Unknowable 45 

The Old Swing 48 

When the Heavens Were Near .... 50 

Shadows 52 

The Magic Mirror 54 

ill 



iv CONTENTS. 

Thalia .62 

Christmas 64 

My Novel 67 

Midnight . . 70 

The Game of Chess 72 

Paquita 74 

Mendelssohn's " Lieder Ohne Worte " . . . 79 

A Castle in New England 82 

The Last Day of Summer 85 

The Sisters 87 

The Ocean 89 

The River 90 

The Castle by the Sea 91 

The Mohawk Valley, from Richfield Hill . . 92 

The Gorge 93 

Twilight 94 

The Fountain 95 

The Shell 96 

Valeska 97 

Dusk 98 

The Wind in the Trees 100 

The Oak Wood 102 

John Wentworth's Will 103 

A Pantomime 108 

Jack's Letter to Bob iii 

Madeline on Base-Ball 114 

Sitting on the Stair 116 

The Boston Girl . . 118 

The Death-Bed of Mrs. O'Flaherty . . .120 

The Beautiful Tight-Rope Dancer . . . 121 

How They Paid the Church Debt at Smithville, 124 

The Ballad of Campanini de Lancy . . . 127 

An Angel 129 

A Song of Sixpence 132 

Jonathan Blake's Clock 135 




THE NOAH'S ARK. 



TN the year — well! that don't matter ; once upon 

^ a time there stood, 

O'er the hill beyond the village, where the river 

skirts the wood, 
A deserted, gabled house, with tumbling porch and 

broken gate. 
And a yard o'ergrown with burdocks, empty, bare, 

and desolate. 
*T was in autumn, earth lay fair and still, the day 

was almost done. 
Golden shone the leaves of elms and maples with 

the setting sun. 
As a child of five years, seeming for his round face 

younger still. 
Poorly clad came trudging barefoot on the road- 
way, down the hill ; 
His unchildlike, thoughtful manner and his dark 

eyes' timid gaze 
Shewed he ne'er had played with children, spoke 

of joyless, lonely days, — 



2 THE NOAH'S ARK, 

Spoke of sorrow, which is saddest when it comes 
in childhood's days. 

In his face a look of hope sprang up, and vanished 
like a spark, 

As he neared the old house — found it still so lonely, 
strange, and dark ; 

Then he knocked, called " Father ! Mother,'' with 
an accent sad and faint. 

Which arose, when all was silent, to a wild and 
helpless plaint. 

Beating on the door with little fists, a never-ceasing 
din, 

But an echo answered only, from the empty rooms 
within. 

Then he climbed a twisted apple-tree, which spread 
its yellow leaves 

O'er the gabled wing, and through a little window, 
'neath the eaves. 

Peered long time, with childish rapture, in a cham- 
ber small and dim, — 

For he saw a scene as wondrous as the fairy tales 
of Grimm — 

Saw a magic scene, like those described by An- 
derson and Grimm. 

In that narrow little chamber, strangely, plainly 

manifest, 
In a cobwebbed, dingy corner, darkened by the 

chimney breast. 



THE NOAH'S ARK, 3 

There were elephants and camels, wolves and lions, 

red and blue, 
Led by men with gowns and turbans, gravely- 
marching two by two. 
Just beyond, a Noah's ark was stranded high upon 

the shore. 
From whose hold this motley crew had doubtless 

landed on the floor. 
Let us leave this strange host marching, 'neath Paul 

Wickford's eager glance. 
And explain why he was haunting this deserted, 

cheerless manse 
Like a ghost of joys departed, drawn back by some 

magic spell. 
Or a ray of sunshine stealing through the grating 

of a cell, — 
Like the visits of the angels to Angelico's dark 

cell. 

Seventy years before, this house with gables peaked, 

and chimneys queer 
Had been built by Gabriel Wickford, and a legend, 

not too clear, 
With the mansion strange connected some dire 

curse for shadowy crime 
Of the builder, for the Wickfords never prospered 

from that time. 
Until Paul's kind father, bent and worn by many 

an adverse wave — 
By misfortune, grief, and suffering, found oblivion 

in the grave ; 



4 THE NOAH'S ARK, 

Then the house for debt was taken, and the mother 
from that day 

Paled and sickened, wasted slowly, kissed the child 
and passed away. 

They had journeyed to a distant land, so little Paul 
was told, 

And the hope of their returning, day by day his 
heart consoled 

With the glorious hope of sometime he was glad- 
dened and consoled. 

In a large, strange neighboring household, with a 

grudging will received, 
Paul divined not that strange riddle we call death, 

but still believed 
In the morning his beloved ones would return, 

when morning came, — 
They would surely come " to-morrow," but the days 

were all the same ; 
And unnoticed he would wander softly to his 

desolate home. 
Wondering if the night had brought them, hoping 

still that they had come. 
Tired with knocking, calling, listening, he would 

climb at last and gaze 
Through the little chamber window at those joys 

of brighter days — 
At the Noah*s ark which somehow had escaped the 

sheriff's hand. 
There they often found and led him from the realms 

of fairy-land — 



THE NOAH'S ARK, 5 

Tore him from the secret treasure, childish faith of 
wonderland. 



Leafless were the trees, and snowflakes on the chilly- 
winds were tossed. 

And the child more sad and lonely, for his faith 
was partly lost. 

Since they shewed him in the churchyard where 
the graves lay side by side. 

Came once more and knocked and waited, and at 
last sat down and cried — 

In the doorway — softly, mutely, wept away his child- 
ish woe. 

Darkness came ; the little figure lay there still, all 
white with snow ; 

But his lonely heart was happy, in that slumber 
calm and deep. 

For he heard dear, loving voices calling to him in 
his sleep — 

Heard quick footsteps, saw the windows lighting up 
the wintry night, 

Saw the door ajar, and father, mother, radiant with 
delight, — 

Sprang into their tender outstretched arms with 
quiverings of delight. 

Twenty years had come and vanished, and the old 
house, which had stood 

Winter, summer, storm and sunshine, in the drear- 
iest solitude, 



6 THE NOAH'S ARK. 

Was transformed, as by a fairy, to a castle quaint 

and fair ; 
Ivy climbed o'er porch and gables, flowers were 

blooming everywhere ; 
And the fairy who had changed it was a maid of 

mortal mould, 
Only daughter of the tenant, who had leased this 

castle old ; 
And this tenant was the preacher in the village 

church, whose spire 
O'er the hill, among the elm trees, at the sunset 

gleamed like fire. 
Several years in calm seclusion they had lived 

there all alone, 
And than Madeline, no thriftier housewife in the 

land was known — 
Never prettier, gentler maiden, than sweet Madeline 

was known. 

And her beauty grew, the longer one beheld her, 

for she stole 
Like an animated picture, or like music on the 

soul : 
Cheeks, smile dimpled, all her gestures poems, with 

a magic change. 
Either loving, roguish, sprightly ; or perhaps in 

contrast strange, 
One beheld her sweet, grave profile, bending o'er 

some well-worn book. 
With her hair a saint-like aureole, a Madonna's 

thoughtful look 



THE NOAH'S ARK. 7 

In her eyes, expressivej downcast, or those eyes in 

the romance 
Of a girlish revery gazing, with a far-off tender 

glance. 
She had passed a happy girlhood in the old house, 

and it seemed, 
With its pleasant nooks and corners, where she 

lived and toiled and dreamed. 
All her own, like those quaint fancies, those bright 

castles she had dreamed. 

And a message from the owner made a flood of 

bright tears come. 
Filled her tender heart with sorrow, — they must leave 

the dear old home. 
For a stranger wished to buy it, and that very day, 

by chance. 
In her father's absence came he, to inspect the queer 

old manse. 
He was young and grave and handsome, tall and 

brave as knight of old. 
Who awoke the sleeping princess, when the hundred 

years were told. 
In his smile was something mystic, what it was she 

could not say. 
As through all the curious mansion's dear old rooms, 

she led the way, 
From the cellar to the attic, pausing then, before 

the door 
Of a locked mysterious chamber, which she ne'er 

had shown before, — 



8 THE NOAH'S ARK, 

Like that chamber in her heart, in which no eye 
had seen before. 

Here she hesitated ; then her fair cheek took a 

deeper shade, 
As the door she softly opened and a tiny room dis- 
played, 
Desolate and bare and lonely ; and the stranger's 

swift glance fell 
On the little wooden figures and the ark, for strange 

to tell. 
There they stood, arranged exactly for a march 

across the floor. 
As when little Paul last saw them, more than twenty 

years before. 
Then with downcast eyes and trembling voice and 

look of maiden shame. 
Told she, how a little boy named Paul had lived 

there ere they came. 
And how, left alone and wandering through the 

mansion old at will. 
She had found these toys arranged, as if their owner 

lived there still, — 
How she wept to see them standing there, so sad 

and poor and still. 

And these treasures, which so long ago had 

thrilled a little heart, 
In her eyes appeared so sacred, that she kept the 

room apart, 



THE NOAH'S ARK. g 

And till now no one had ever come into its deso- 
late gloom, 
Which the ghost of vanished childhood filled as 

with some sweet perfume. 
Here she oft had loved to picture this child's life 

so like her own, 
Till, between her and the little Paul, a friendship 

sweet had grown. 
He would think it strange, and laugh to hear this 

fancy queer and wild. 
But no words could ever tell him how she loved 

that little child. 
Then she felt her hand grasped tightly, felt a tear 

upon it fall ; 
In her heart strange fancies mingled, of the stranger 

and of Paul ; 
Said the stranger : " I would have you love him 

always, — I am Paul." 



t!^! 



^ 




MARIQUITA. 



T IKE a sleepy Spanish village, 
^ Lay the town of St. Augustine, 
With its palms and white-walled gardens, 
And its curious Spanish fortress. 
Built with tower and moat and dungeon, 
In the days of King Fernando. 

Half a mile beyond the city, 

On the San Sebastian River, 

Stood the great old-fashioned mansion, 

Stretched away the rich plantation. 

Of the fair and youthful widow, 

Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 

She was strange and wild and tender. 
Strange and wilful and fantastic ; 
Many a suitor wooed her vainly. 
Till, at last, came Dick Van Keuren — 
Came, preceded by a letter, 
From her kinsmen in Savannah, 



MARIQUITA. II 

On the night of his arrival, 
Seeking Leonora*s dwelling, 
He was led, by sounds of music 
And of laughter, to the fortress — 
Led to join the merry dancers 
At the ball in fort San Marco. 

In the fortress' broad enclosure, 
Colored lanterns, Strauss' music, 
Mingling with the voice of ocean. 
Towers and battlements dark-outlined 
'Gainst the starry roof of heaven, 
Made it all seem like enchantment — 

Made it arabesque and dream-like ; 
But with him \ was all unnoticed. 
For his heart was deeply wounded 
By the eyes of Mariquita, 
Mariquita, sad and wistful, 
Standing statuesque and silent, 

Like the ghost of some fair Spaniard 
Of the days, of seventeen hundred ; 
Standing, where he first beheld her. 
In the archway's gloomy shadow. 
Whence, with merry jests and phrases, 
He had sought, in vain, to tempt her. 

When at last to words more tender 
He had come, the night was waning, 



12 MARIQUITA, 

And the lights went out, the music 
Ceased to dull the ocean's murmur, 
And the ghostly Mariquita 
Fled away into the darkness — 

Fled away and like a phantom, 
Many a day his search eluded. 
Then he thought of Leonora ; 
Stood at last within her garden. 
" Sir, my mistress still is absent. 
She will come again to-morrow,'' 

Spoke the rosy little handmaid 
From the doorway, where her slender. 
Rounded figure seemed a picture 
In a frame ; her eyes were downcast. 
And she blushed that thus he found her, 
For, behold ! 't was Mariquita. 

Balmy winds of evening rustled 
Through the orange-scented garden ; 
O'er the plashing of the fountain. 
And the swaying of the hammock, 
Low and tender voices sounded. 
Paused and ceased and then continued : 

'* Do not ask me ! oh ! I fear them, 
Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 
And the haughty, cruel cousin, 
Leonora, Cid y Guerra. 



MARIQUITA. ' 13 

She was born to joy and riches, 
I — to sorrow and to bondage.'* 

Night came on, a white-robed figure 
Through the garden swiftly glided 
To the thicket, by the river, 
Where the steed aiid rider waited ; — 
*' Up ! away ! and now forever 
You are mine, sweet Mariquita." 

" Do you hear that hollow murmur, 
Like the distant tramp of horses ? 
We are followed. Oh ! I fear them. 
Uncle Pedro, Uncle Juan. 
Faster still ! the preacher lives there 
Where that light shines out before us." 

Strangely, gleamed the flickering torchlight 
On the hurried midnight wedding 
And 't was then, that Dick Van Keuren 
Found that Mariquita's story 
Of the proud and cruel cousin. 
Uncle Juan, Uncle Pedro, 

With the hurried flight at midnight 
And the horsemen following after. 
Was a strange conceit and fancy, 
A romantic whim, of Donna 
Leonora, Cid y Guerra, — 
Found that she was Mariquita. 



THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 



T^HROUGH the intricate maze of its pulleys and 
-■• wheels, 

And its oaken frame, a vision steals 
Of the long gone years, of the hands that are still, 
And the elm-shaded house at the foot of the hill. 
Where the child, round-cheeked and wond*ring- 

eyed, 
Watched the old wheel buzz at the ingleside. 
With a sound like a far-off muffled drum, 
In its ^* clickety^ whir-r^ whir-r^ hum'' 



Years come and go ; on the porch it stands. 

And the pirns fly round 'neath a fair girl's hands ; 

She watches the sunset's fading rays. 

With a far-off, girlish, fanciful gaze.- 

Till the rose steals into her dimpled cheek. 

And the garrulous spinning-wheel seems to speak 

Her foolish thoughts to Christendom 

With its " clicketyy whir-r^ whir-r^ hum,'' 



THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL. 1 5 

Still time speeds on ; 't is a winter's night, 
The hearth fire is circled with faces bright, 
There is laughter and jest, and the storm, in vain, 
Beats on the door and the frosted pane. 
And the wheel spins round with a measured rhyme, 
Like a quaint refrain of the old, glad time, 
Like a presage of sorrowful days to come ; 
In its ^" clickety, wMr-r, whir-r^ hum'^ 

Its voice oft brought the sick child rest, 
And lightened many a weary breast ; 
Beneath its song the whispered word 
And kiss of lovers passed unheard. 
If it could speak, that strange old wheel 
What wonderful secrets it would reveal ! 
What romance is hid in the weary sum 
Of its " clickety^ whtr-r, whir-r, hum '* / 

It had its influence and its share 

In every joy and every care ; 

Fast, fast it flew, yet with swifter rate. 

Spun round and round, the wheel of fate. 

They fashioned out of its woven thread 

The dress of the bride and the sheet for the dead. 

And the wheel went round, though the heart grew 

numb. 
With a *'*' clickety^ whir-r^ whir-r^ hum J* 

All are vanished and all are still. 

And the spinning-wheel by the clattering mill 



i6 



THE OLD SPINNING-WHEEL, 



Has been left behind with the primitive days 
Of homelier toil and more honest ways ; 
Yet, oft through the night, and out of the gloom 
And the gathered dust of the lumber-room, 
Its song, like a ghost's voice, seems to come, 
With a " clickety, whir-r^ whir-r^ hum,'* 




SUMMER THOUGHTS. 



T TPON a mossy knoll in the forest, I 

^ Lay looking upward at the eternal blue 

Of the infinite and quiet heavens, through 
The oak-leaf and the hemlock's canopy. 
And now and then a cloud went drifting by, 

Listless and slow and changing to the view. 

How like my fleeting summer thoughts to you. 
Calm, peaceful clouds ! And now the evening sky 
A deeper, darker, lovelier azure hath. 

The birds have ceased their singing, and the 
breeze 
Is filled with hum of insects ; darkness saith — 

With the first few stars twinkling through the 
trees — 
That night has come. A little while, and death, 

Like night, will end life's summer reveries. 




17 




GALATEA. 



T STOLE forth from the merry festival, 
^ With which the panes of Wentworth glimmered 
bright, 

And wandered in the still midsummer night, 
Through an old garden with an ivied wall 
And winding paths and statues mythical. 

A pensive marble goddess robed in white. 

Like some fair vision of the shadowy light, 
Inspired me with the thought fantastical, 
To kneel before her and apostrophize 

Her loveliness in quaint, impassioned tone. 
But, starting from her mystic reveries. 

Ere I had ceased, the imagined nymph of stone — 
A swift dissolving dream of laughing eyes, 

A magic dream of golden hair — had flown. 




i8 




THE READING OF THE TALE. 



Al ZE read together on a winter's night 
^ ^ The oldest, quaintest, saddest of romances. 
She leaned upon my chair ; by slow advances 
My arm around her stole ; the panes were white 
With silvery frost ; the hearth fire flickered bright ; 

My heart was filled with ardent, wistful fancies, 

And in her face I read by stolen glances 
A gentle sorrow mingled with delight. 
Her moistened eyes looked up ; the tale had 
wrought 

Upon us both love's tenderest, sweetest spell. 
She must have guessed my fond and longing thought. 

For her dear head upon my shoulder fell ; 
And in that blissful silence there was naught 

Beside the exquisite truth we knew so well. 




19 




THE PORTRAIT. 



''DEAUTY of yonder portrait ! *t is from thee 
^ That thy descendant hath the loveliness 
Of her arch smile, and blue eyes' thoughtful- 
ness. 

Telling thy tale, she bade me laughingly 

Beware thy ghost." Thus lost in revery 
I heard the rustle of a silken dress. 
And saw what seemed the ghostly ancestress 

Enter my lonely chamber stealthily. 

Close by she passed, a little hand I caught, — 
'T was snatched away, — she vanished into air, 

Leaving a ring so small its size with naught 
But Cinderella's slipper might compare, 

Which, strange to say, when like the Prince I sought 
An unknown bride, one hand alone could wear. 





THE CRICKET. 



/^H ! little cricket, that the evening long 
^-^ Dost tell thy story to the silent hours, 

While the dew falls upon the thirsty flowers ! 
What is the burden of thy ceaseless song ? 
A tale of love ? or secrets that belong 

To the dim solitudes of ruined towers, 

Whose crumbling walls the ivy leaf embowers ? 
Or drolleries of Titania's shadowy throng ? 
Thou art a friend, so ancient legends tell. 

That with the power of mystic sorcery 
Guardest the hearth where thou dost love to dwell, 

And with thy quaint and pleasant company 
The night's deep loneliness thou dost dispel, 

Thou merry chief of insect minstrelsy ! 



21 




THE ROSE. 



T PLUCKED a rose that bloomed in solitude, 
'■' Filling with fragrance a secluded bower, 

And saw its petals, falling in a shower. 
Rise up a maiden, her sweet attitude 
And slender form and dimpled cheek imbued 

With all the grace and beauty of the flower. 

"Art thou," I asked, "the sport of magic power. 
Or some dark-eyed enchantress of the wood ? " 
" A hundred years," she answered, " 't was my 
doom. 

Because I laughed at love and lovers* woes, 
A full-blown rose in loneliness to bloom ; 

Who plucked the flower and broke my long 
repose. 
Him I should wed. Alas ! I must resume. 

If he refuse, my sleep within the rose." 





THE VOICES OF THE WOOD. 



IT E, who in some cathedral, gray and old, 
-■• -'- Has cherished solemn reveries, knows the 
thrill 

Which moves my heart, in forest dim and still, 
Until I long, within the shady wold. 
To dwell, and naught beyond its walls behold. 

Save what some shifting, leafy opening will 

Disclose of waving grain, blue sky, and hill, 
Village half hid, or church spire, tipped with gold. 
With the half gloom of those vast aisles imbued, 

Let me forget myself, in revery, 
Till sunlight by their shadow is subdued. 

The breezes hushed by their solemnity, 
And like mysterious voices of the wood, 

Religion, love, or sorrow speaks to me. 




AN AUTUMN FANCY. 



SUMMER has fled, and though the earth dis- 
plays 

Her woods and fields, her vales and mountains, 
dressed 

In quiet, perfect beauty, on the breast 
Of nature a mysterious sadness weighs. 
And there doth steal upon me, while I gaze 

Upon the white clouds, floating to the west, 

And sinking *neath the blue hill's wooded crest, 
Once more, the sweet belief of childish days. 
That, could I pass beyond yon distant hill, 

There would I find the summer once again, 
With skies eternal, cloudless, deep and still. 

And that this bright and beautiful domain 
Would give me back sweet friends, and would fulfil 

All hopes and wishes cherished long in vain. 



24 




A WINTEE. FANCY. 



T^HE night wind moans, the frost is on the pane, 
^ And by the flickering hearth fire manifest 

There ever sits a sad and silent guest. 
For I the ghost of childhood entertain 
And live the days of childhood o'er again, 

Until the thoughts of those, whose kindness 
blessed 

My little world, long vanished, fill my breast 
With a great longing, passionate, childish, vain, — 
A longing for the arms that round me twined 

And filled my little heart with fond delight. 
The looks which every cloud Vv^ith silver lined ; 

The cheering words which made the days so 
bright. 
Friends of my childhood ! gentle, true, and kind, 

Where are ye all, upon this winter's night ? 




25 




AT BREAK OF DAY. 



T^HE stars fade slowly, twinkle, pale and die, 
^ Before the halo rising in the east, 
A rosy glamour steals athwart the sky. 

And grows to flames of gules and amethyst. 
The hills are silver-rimmed, the curtain of mist 
As at some swift command, rolls back from field. 

Valley and lake and wood, and floats away. 
And the whole glorious pageant is revealed 
At break of day. 

There is a solemn murmur of the breeze. 
There is a ripple on the lonely shore, 

A solitary chirp, among the trees. 
Is taken up and echoed o*er and o'er 
And dies away, and all is still once more. 

Then comes the signal, and all living things 
Raise up an anthem, glorious, blithe and gay, 

And the whole earth with one grand chorus rings 
At break of day. 
26 



A T BREAK OF DA V. 2/ 

There is a night of sorrow and unrest, 
A darkness of the soul — a night when all 

The world of thought is haunted and oppressed 
And hemmed about, as with a dungeon wall, 
When heaviness and fear upon us fall. 

Take courage, then ! the longest, darkest hour 
Comes just before the first faint tinge of gray. 

And sadness has no place, and fear no power. 
At break of day. 

And when that last, that silent, starless night, 

Comes over us, when the dark, sorrowful stream 
Sweeps at our feet, in dread, relentless might. 
And every deed and word and thought shall 

seem 
To pass before us, in a troubled dream, — 
What joy ! to watch the faintly outlined shore 
Rise, grand and glistening, 'neath morn's silvery 
ray 
To know that night departs for evermore 
At break of day. 





THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 



RUSTY, worn, and stained by wind and weather, 
Still the same, through all the years' swift 
change, 
Long has stood a homely, gabled dwelling, 

Silent, dark, and strange ; 
Seeming lost, overshadowed and forgotten. 

In the busy street. 
But 't is filled with bright and quaint illusions, 
Hallowed by sweet faces long since vanished. 
Haunted by the tread of unseen feet. 

He who lives there, careworn, gray, and lonely, 

He who loves its melancholy gloom, 
Sometimes hears the noise of children romping 

In some distant room — 
Merry ghosts of hide-and-seek, whose voices 

Lead him on, until 
Something tells him they are but the phantoms 
Of his childish hopes and creeds ; — then swiftly 
They have fled, and all again is still. 

28 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 29 

From his mid-day reveries he is startled 
By a fair ghost, from an old romance, 
With a merry laugh, a slender figure, 

And a roguish glance. 
Was it all a dream ? but look ! the curtain 

Trembles still, ah ! well ! 
'T is not true, for her sweet voice is silent, 
She has long been sleeping in that palace 
Where no knight can come to break the spell. 

There 's a whispering in the embrasured casement. 
When the dusk comes and the night winds sigh ; 
'Gainst the pains a little group seems shadowed, 

Ghosts of long gone by, 
When the mother called her children round her. 

Held them close, and told 
Stories of the stars and of the fairies, — 
Magic stories, which, in childhood's kingdom, 
Change the earth — the very hours — to gold. 

But at midnight, when the street is silent. 
And the firelight floats upon the walls. 
Quickly all is changed, a bright enchantment 

On the old house falls ; 
Bringing back the beauty and affection 

Of the golden years, 
Bringing back the perfumes and the music, 
Bringing back the faces and the voices. 
Bringing back the smiles without the tears. 




SANTA TRINIDAD. 



DEMEMBEREST thou the mission, with its 
-'■ ^ memories 

Of times long passed away ? 
And how, admitted by a solemn verger, — 

A verger bent and gray, — 
Thou ! fairest Helen ! lingered in the garden, 

While I, of graver mood. 
Explored at will the queer old Spanish ruin's 

Historic solitude ? 

There Sister Trinidad, in seventeen hundred, 

A young and pious soul, 
Becoming Santa Trinidad, 't was written. 

Put off her hood and stole. 
There still were shown the holy vestments ; gazing 

Upon those relics quaint. 
My heart grew tender, with the recollection 

Of the sweet nun and saint. 

The sunlight, stealing thro' the painted windows^ 
Streamed on the chapel wall : 
30 



SANTA TRINIDAD, 3 1 

I saw, in a kaleidoscopic medley, 

Its colors rise and fall ; 
I saw, upon the altar piece, its radiance 

Restoring once again, 
The old-time glory and the beauty faded 

Long since from mortal ken. 

At length, from cell and corridor emerging, 

I climbed the belfry tower, 
And thinking of those strange traditions, lingered 

Until the twilight hour : 
Returning then, along the shadowy cloisters. 

Mysterious and dim, 
I seemed to hear, in mellow cadence, floating, 

The solemn vesper hymn. 

I gained the chapel ; thro* the ivied windows 

Yet stole a feeble gleam. 
And lo ! as still as marble, as romantic 

As youthful painter's dream, 
Bringing me back to centuries departed. 

To thoughts of things divine, 
Behold ! a slender, black-robed nun was kneeling 

Before the dingy shrine. 

The phantom rose, a graceful, girlish figure. 

With cowl of monstrous size ; 
I caught a transient glimpse of pretty features, 

Of two dark Spanish eyes ; 
She moved, she spoke, words of soft, foreign accent 

Came from that sombre hood, 



32 SANTA TRINIDAD. 

The door beyond her opened, in the doorway 
The ancient verger stood. 

One glance he gave — one swift, wild look of terror. 

As if he saw the dead. 
And crying, " Santa Trinidad," behind him 

He slammed the door and fled. 
O laugh more musical than e'er was uttered 

By recluse grave and sad, 
O faithless Helen ! to have donned the vestments 

Of Santa Trinidad. 




THEN AND NOW. 



IV /I ANY, many years have fled 

^^ ^ Since this land I journeyed through ; 

Round the careless youngster's head 

Straggling locks of brown hair blew ; 
Laughing, like the fields of May, 

Stretched my future ; though around 
Many a dream-like picture lay. 

Tenderer charms in thee I found. 

Little maid of fifteen springs ! 

As we strolled 'tween wood and stream, 
Hours were golden, hope had wings, 

All was like an airy dream. 
Now through this same land I wend, 

*T is a memory-haunted way. 
Life is hastening toward its end. 

Heart is sere and head is gray. 

From thy cottage gleams the light ; 
Childish voices, glad and sweet, 
33 



34 THEN AND NOW, 

Outward float into the night ; 

At the door thy child I meet. 
Little maid of fifteen years, 

So like thine her sweet traits seem, 
That my eyes are dim with tears — 

All again is like a dream. 

No ; 't is not a dream, for all 

We have lived, worked out, and thought 
Is not fabric that will fall — 

Shadow that will come to naught. 
What our tender thoughts once hold 

Hallowed, beautiful, sublime. 
Ne'er will vanish, ne'er grow old, 

But live on to endless time. 




THE OLD, OLD HOME. 



J\ A Y heart is saddened, for all 

^ ^ *■ Seems so queer and common and small, 

As I stand by the old house once more. 
The gables are not so tall. 

Nor the lawn as wide as of yore, 
And the faces that I recall 

Look not from window or door. 

A railroad crosses the leas, 

And they Ve laid out a street where the breeze 

Rustled once in the waving corn. 
Oh ! 't is hard to believe that these 

Were the haunts of life's sunshiny morn, 
And that those great, spreading elm-trees 

Were planted when I was born. 

The old place has changed, and they 
Who endeared it have passed away ; 

But still in my heart I behold. 
As if it were yesterday. 

The apple-trees, gnarled and old, 
One mass of white blossoms in May, 

And in autumn, weighted with gold ; 
35 



36 THE OLD, OLD HOME. 

The meadows, the fields of grain, 
The barn, with its copper vane, 

And dovecote under the eaves ; 
Where we heard the pattering rain. 

As we lay in the yellow sheaves ; — 
And a changing, fanciful chain 

My sorrowful memory weaves : 

Of the lilac tree, and the bloom 
Of the roses, whose faint perfume. 

Floating in on the breeze, would fill 
My dear little narrow room ; 

Of the twilight so soft and still, 
The evening's deepening gloom, 

And the moon rising o'er the hill. 

My little playmate is dead ; 
He died when I met in his stead 

The careworn man : and the mirth. 
The joy of the morning has fled ; 

And the dear old home of my birth, 
Of my innocent childhood's tread. 

Has passed away from the earth. 

But oft in the world of dreams 
It exists again, and it seems 

More hallowed, rosy, and quaint. 
From my far-away childhood streams 

An aroma, sweet and faint. 
And around it a radiance beams, 

And a charm that words cannot paint. 




MY FRIEND. 



T^O him who counts the clock's slow ticking, 
* While the night's long hours wear away, 
There comes a truer, nobler impulse. 

Than aught that moves the heart by day, 
And tender fancies, that, like fairies. 

Fade with the dawn's first streaks of gray. 

And so, to-night, while vainly seeking 
Oblivion from my cares and fears, 

There comes a flood of recollections ; 
A face, which fills my eyes with tears ; 

A longing, passionate and childish. 
For my true friend of boyish years. 

And wondering what have been his fortunes 
In the long years since we have met, 

I fear his life has not been brighter 
For my poor influence, and regret 

That in the account of our affection 
I *m still so greatly in his debt. 
37 



38 MV FRIEND. 

I long for our dear confidences 

In those familiar, sacred haunts, 
To have once more our golden visions, 

With all their treasures of romance — 
The girls we loved, the stately castles 

Which filled the future's bright expanse. 

And though those castles all have crumbled, 
Those hopes and dreams have all proved vain 

The thought of our sweet friendship softens 
The disappointment and the pain ; 

And so, when thinking of my boyhood. 
The tears are dried, the smiles remain. 

And though the flood that rolls between us 
Has widened with each year's swift flight, 

These kindly fancies, like a rainbow. 
Once more its distant shores unite ; 

And o'er this airy bridge returning, 
I 've been with my old friend to-night. 





AT ALDEN'S. 



"Xl ZE were sitting by the chimney, 
^^ In the hearth fire's flickering light, 
On the cliff, in Alden's cottage. 

Where I rested for the night ; 
And I told the scenes and customs 

Of the lands beyond the sea ; 
While old Alden's little daughter 

Sat and listened at my knee. 

In her blue-eyed radiant beauty 

There was something shy and wild, 
And the maiden's romance mingled 

With the wonder of the child. 
Hours had passed, the old sea captain 

In his arm-chair dozed and dreamed. 
Sadly moaned the neighboring ocean, 

'Gainst the panes the firelight gleamed. 

Then she spoke of knights and tourneys, 
And her cheeks were all aglow, 
39 



40 AT ALDEN'S, 

For all day that little maiden 
Had been reading " Ivanhoe " ; 

Spoke of ghosts and of magicians, 
While her voice to whispers grew, 

Toward the panes cast startled glances, 
Wondered if such things were true. 

And I improvised a story- 
Fit for such a place and hour — 

How, for long years by the ocean. 
In a cruel fairy's power. 

Lived a little maid enchanted. 
Till her faithful knight, one day 

While her guardian fierce was sleeping, 
Stole that little maid away. 

As I spoke, her blue eyes twinkled 

With a merry, mystic light ; 
As I spoke, she rose and lingered 

In the door to say *^ Good-night." 
But her lamp threw such a radiance 

'Round the roguish, pretty head. 
That I swiftly stooped and kissed her. 

And she blushed and laughed and fled. 

When I came once more to Alden's 
I beheld a mournful change. 

For the little maid had vanished 

And the house seemed sad and strange. 

Alden's pale, gaunt look foreshadowed 
What his quivering lips would say, 



AT ALDEN'S. 4I 

And I grasped his hand in silence 
And in silence turned away. 

All the proud and cherished structures 

By a life-long patience wrought, 
All the triumphs which have followed 

Days of toil and nights of thought, 
Crumble, sink away, and vanish, 

Like the ocean's shifting sand. 
When that sweet face comes before me, 

That lost dream of fairy-land. 





ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD FOUR 
YEARS OLD. 



I KNEW a child whose little feet had wandered 
Through naught but flowers, and who — 
Still thinking that could he but climb the moun- 
tains, 
He 'd touch the sky^s soft blue ; 
See why the bright stars twinkled, and if really 

The clouds were flocks of sheep, 
With all his countless little footsteps weary, — 
Lay down and fell asleep. 

'T was while the childish faith, in his small bosom, 

Was beautiful and bright, 
In our good Saviour's story, and the legends 

Of holy Christmas night, 
In that ethereal world of dream and fancy. 

O'er which kind fairies reign, 
And in his power to stay, when he grew older, 

All sorrow, want, and pain. 
42 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD, 43 

Long will we miss thee, as we miss the sunbeams 

In autumn days ; thou wert 
So mischievous and glad, so omnipresent 

In thy short, brown, checked skirt. 
The block-house thou hadst built behind the wood- 
shed. 

Is out of all repair, 
And when, with autumn days, the door creaks open, 

No roguish face is there. 

Sometimes thy dimpled cheeks with clouds were 
shadowed. 

But only for a while. 
The pout upon thy quivering lips relaxing, 

Would change into a smile ; 
Then came the kiss of reconciliation. 

Thy small, choked breast would rise, 
And then I 'd find what angels were, by looking 

In thy moist, loving eyes. 

And every night, I Ve drawn thy little playmates 

Upon my knee, and told 
Them why thou layest, flower-strewn and small 
hands folded. 

So white, so still, so cold. 
*T was but the preparation for the journey 

To a bright twinkling star. 
Where a great King reigned, who sent forth each 
twelvemonth 

His angels near and far, — 



44 ON THE DEA TH OF A CHILD, 

To find and bring to live in his blest kingdom, 

The gentlest little child, 
And this time, came the summons to their play- 
mate, 
So good, and pure and mild ; 
And now they grieve no more, but think that some- 
time 
Their summons will be given, 
And their small friend will come again and lead 
them 
Up the steep path to heaven. 





THE UNKNOWABLE. 



A PROBLEM strange is matter, for resolve it 

^~^ o'er and o'er, 

Into its simplest forms, we are no further than be- 
fore ; 

For then, a tiny grain, a germ invisible we hold, 

Which still can be divided, though divided times 
untold — 

A grain which may become the air, the water, or 
have power 

To grow into a giant tree, or to a slender flower. 



And what is motion ? who can tell whence comes 
its secret force ? 

Is it something ? is it nothing ? hath it end ? or 
hath it source ? 

The spirit of the earth and air, forward and back- 
ward tossed 

From one thing to the other, never spent and never 
lost ; 

45 



46 THE UNKNOWABLE. 

We see it in the growing grass, we hear it in the 

wind, 
We seize it — it eludes our grasp, it will not be 

defined. 



We cannot picture in the mind that kingdom vague 
called ** space," 

For where there are no limits fixed, there is not any- 
place ; 

And pondering on this shadowy theme, the thought 
will rise that there 

Must be, in all this dreary waste, a boundary fixed 
somewhere ; 

Our refuge from that thought's to think that all the 
stars we see, 

Compared with space, are as one hour in all eter- 
nity. 

And when did time begin to reign ? and when will 
time be naught ? 

That time is truly infinite, we cannot think the 
thought. 

We Ve said that time 's eternal, yet we know not 
what we say ; 

The only image that can e'er the subtle truth con- 
vey 

Is, that compared with time, the age which marks 
this planet's face 

Is like our little universe, lost in the realms of 
space. 



THE UNKNOWABLE. 4/ 

To these mysterious facts, all search must ulti- 
mately tend, 

And here, as 'gainst the solid rock, all thought and 
quest must end ; 

For we have found the infinite, that truth, so lightly 
said. 

Which from the grasp still soars, and leaves the 
finite in its stead. 

These strange, unknown realities must finally in- 
still 

Belief that they *re a part, a glimpse, of some al- 
mighty will ; 

And so, at last, by matter, motion, space, and time, 
we find 

The impotence of human thought, the dearth of 
human mind ; 

And this dark veil before our eyes the best assur- 
ance gives 

That there must be a higher life and that the 
eternal lives. 





THE OLD SWING. 



ROUND childhood's home I linger sadly, 
And note the changes time has made. 
I watch the group of children playing, 

As once a little child I played, 
With the old swing that still is hanging 
Beneath the giant elm-tree's shade. 

And waiting till with twilight's coming 
The merry crowd departs — once more 

I feel the old swing sway beneath me 
With mystic measure, as of yore. 

Again I dream the dreams of boyhood, 
And live that sweet existence o'er. 

It seems with every slow vibration, 

A magic pendulum of days. 
Which backward moves, until my childhood 

Appears before my tear-dimmed gaze ; 
And where the gray-haired man was dreaming, 

A careless, happy urchin sways. 
48 



THE OLD SWING. 49 

He hears the rustling leaves and branches, 

The queer cicada's wizard tune. 
He tries to solve the wondrous problems 

Of sky and earth, nor thinks how soon 
In golden plans and childish fancies 

Will fade the smiling summer noon. 

The child becomes the boyish dreamer, 

With future limitless and bright, 
Outstretching to the land of fairies, 

Where he, a dauntless, loyal knight. 
In search of some wronged, lovely princess. 

In the old swing takes many a flight. 

Years pass : 't is dusk ; as by enchantment, 
The swing grows wide enough for two. 

An ardent youth, a pretty maiden. 
Whom I in days long vanished knew. 

That back and forth are slowly swaying. 
And talk in whispers faint and few. 

Just then fate broke the link that bound me 
To that lost youth I loved so well. 

And child and boy and lover faded 
And vanished with the broken spell. 

For lo ! like all my airy castles, 

The old swing trembled, snapped, and fell. 




WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR. 



WHEN I was but a little boy, 
I thought that all that seemed was true, 
All trivial things were springs of joy, 
The earth was glorious, bright and new. 

The world was mine ; *t was full, I thought, 

Of fairies, genii, rare delights 
And palaces, by magic wrought ; 

I 'd read it in the ^' Arabian Nights.*' 

My faith was strong in Santa Claus, 

Whose gifts to good folks always came ; 

And now, I find far different laws 
Dividing honor, wealth and fame. 

I thought that riches brought content, 
That friends were always true and kind, 

With rainbows all the showers were blent, 
The clouds were always golden-lined. 



WHEN THE HEAVENS WERE NEAR, 5 1 

The sloping hill, before our home, 
- Seemed a steep, rugged mountain side ; 
The small stream where we played, like some 
Historic river, deep and wide. 

I thought the sky*s blue crystal lay 
Just o'er the tree-tops on the hill ; 

And now, heaven seems so far away, 
And every year grows farther still. 

Years have crept by ; with silent grief, 
I 've seen each boyish hope decay, 

Each bright conception and belief 
On life's stern river swept away. 

Wealth, learning, aye ! the world I 'd give 

To be once more so near the sky. 
Because, the longer that I live. 

The less, it seems, I 'm fit to die. 





SHADOWS. 



THE summer wind is sighing in the tree-tops, 
A melancholy tale ; 
The sparkling elm-leaves trace upon the heavens 
An ever-shifting veil. 

The shadow of the chestnut moves and trembles 

Upon the waving grass, 
The ripples of a sea of molten silver 

Along the meadow pass. 

A cloud draws near — a ship with fleecy canvas. 

Its shadow o'er the lawn 
Steals slowly on, like death, until the sunlight 

Fades, quivers — and is gone. 

The rustic, ivied seat beneath the chestnut. 

Where often I have made 
Her eyes grow moist, reading some quaint, sad story, 

Is lonely and decayed. 
52 



SHADOWS, 53 

The morning-glory looks not in her window, 

As once it used, to meet 
The merry smile, which triumphed o'er the suffering 

Of beauty pale and sweet. 

We watched the solemn shadow nearer stealing, 
Before the dark ship came. 

And felt, that should a ray of sunlight follow, 
'T would never be the same. 





THE MAGIC MIRROR. 



"T* WAS toward the close of a September day ; 
•■■ The air was hazy ; through a woodland screen, 
Where sank the golden sun, a fiery ray 

Down slanting o'er the yellow, brown and green, 
Of corn, ploughed land and pasture, from the 
sheen 
Of the broad Mohawk upward glanced again, 

And so enwrapt with flames incarnadine 
A gabled mansion's windows, peaks, and vane. 
That the old farm-house looked like castle built in 
Spain. 

II. 

Yet, with the sunset, it seemed lone and drear, 

For only lately, death had crossed the sill. 
And since that morn, its mistress. Widow Vere, 

Slept in the little graveyard on the hill. 

Here, twenty years, she lived, proud, sad, and still. 
With one old servant, since her child had fled 

With him she loved against the old dame's will ; 

54 



THE MAGIC MIRROR. 55 

And as she, too, for many years was dead, 
A kinsman, far removed, the estate inherited. 

III. 

And he who now, long time with boisterous din, 
An entrance sought, was Winthrop Ford, the heir. 

And when at last the door swung softly in. 
And no one came, as if a ghost were there. 
He entered through a hall-way, dim and square, 

The musty regions of a darkened room. 
Where, hung on either wall, a cheerful care 

Had worked a weeping willow and a tomb. 

And framed two coffin-plates, to dissipate the 
gloom. 

IV. 

Thence gladly through the farther door his way 
He found into an oaken chamber ; here 

Were portraits grave, a hearth and quaint display 
Of volumes, brown with dust of many a year. 
Chairs grimly carved, a sideboard dark and queer. 

Whose glass gave back the sunset's dying flame ; 
And o'er the hearth he saw, pale, startling, near, 

The likeness of a young and lovely dame. 

Who seemed as if about to step down from the 
frame. 

V. 

She looked the heroine of some strange romance. 

And seemed to follow every move he made, 
With a mysterious and disdainful glance, 



56 THE MAGIC MIRROR, 

Caught from old Colonel Vere, whose face, dis- 
played 
With grim effect, above his trenchant blade 
Of continental glory, Winthrop eyed 

With smile sarcastic, till, by beauty swayed, 
He turned to her again, and petrified 
With wonder, there beheld — a mirror, naught be- 
side. 

VI. 

Thence to an open window, with all speed, 
He sprang, but there no flying beauty found ; 

Some clothes flapped on the line, an ancient steed, 
Like Pegasus, imprisoned in the pound. 
Gazed sadly o'er the fence, then turned around. 

And eyed, with ludicrous surprise, the knight. 
Who ventured thus to tread enchanted ground. 

A passage, then, whose door stood opposite 

The mirror, gave a clue to that fair vision's flight. 

VII. 

And in its darkness, venturing to explore. 

He reached the attic stairs, then turned aside 
And found his way unto another door, 

Which, as he came, creaked loud and opened 
wide 

Upon the castle kitchen, where he spied 
An ancient crone, who, if she were in truth 

The enchanted fair, — was much transmogrified, 
And who supposed, a fairy prince, forsooth. 
This apparition swift, of such tall, handsome 
youth. 



THE MAGIC MIRROR, 5/ 

VIII. 

But, when her fright allowed him to explain, 

The rightful heir, with stately courtesy, 
She welcomed, like some feudal castelaine. 
And forthwith darted out and speedily 
Brought the "baked funeral meats,'* which 
proved to be 
Cheese, doughnuts and mince pie, a goodly cheer ; 

Then, while he ate, traced out the family tree 
In all its branches, from its earliest year. 
And told him many a tale of proud old Madame 
Vere. 

IX. 

The supper ended, by a fire which blazed 

Upon the hearth, for now the nights were cold, 

He sat and smoked, and in the mirror gazed. 
Hoping that there, once more, he might behold 
That ghostly girl, of such enchanting mould. 

Whose beauty, subtile as some faint perfume. 
Filled him with fancies, strange and manifold. 

And now the twilight deepened into gloom. 

The fire had burned low down, and darkness filled 
the room. 

X. 

An influence supernatural seemed to fill 

The strange old mansion, even the doors had 
caught 
The charm, and opened of their own sweet will, 
And all things were with that bright vision 
fraught, 



58 THE MAGIC MIRROR, 

That face, of which it seemed he 'd always thought 
Then, suddenly, the wood blazed up once more, 

Lighting the room ; his eyes the mirror sought, 
And there he saw, within the passage door. 
The enchanted princess stand, pale, mystic as 

before. 

XI. 

Her face was oval and her figure tall ; 

Her hair, with silver comb of quaint device. 
Flowed waving from a fair, low brow, to fall 

Upon a small, round neck ; the sweet surprise 

Of parted lips, arched piquantly ; large gray eyes, 
Mysterious in the dancing light ; and then 

A dimpled chin, softened what otherwise 
A too disdainful beauty would have been ; — 
This much he saw before the blaze died out again. 

XII. 

Then springing up, he struck a light and found 
The open door ; a gust thence sweeping blew 

The light out ; something rustled ; with a bound 
He rushed into the passage, stumbled through, 
And up the stairway to the attic flew. 

A phantom shape before the window crossed. 
And falling o'er a spinning-wheel or two. 

He grasped a fluttering garment, but the ghost 

Changed to an old silk gown upon a rafter tossed. 

XIII. 

He stretched his length before the hearth again. 
And, watching by a lamplight's flickering gleam, 



THE MAGIC MIRROR, 59 

Thought surely that the colonel winked, and then 
He slept and dreamed a most unheard-of dream : 
Goblins and spooks swept by in motley stream \ 

And then 't was changed, and the enchanted fair 
Sat sleeping by the hearth, while what would seem 

The ghost of Madame Vere, w^ith silvery hair, 

Stooped down, and in her face peered with a 
ghastly stare. 

XIV. 

To shield such sleeping loveliness from harm. 
For 'neath the spell she moved with many a sigh ; 

He strove, but could not stir, to break the charm, 
Until, the rusty sword, which dangled nigh, 
Perceiving, in the twinkling of an eye 

He seized, and at the ghost, with all his will. 
Flung it, and presto ! wakened instantly 

By a great fall of glass, — with sudden thrill 

He saw the face once more the magic mirror fill. 

XV. 

But now, behold ! her look, her garb portrayed 
A curious change, as if in antique dress. 

She were bedizened for a masquerade, 

While in her hair, the silver comb, no less, 
Smacked of the days of some dead ancestress. 

Then to a door, which opened opposite, 

He turned, and saw — no dream of loveliness. 

But the old servant, robed in ghostly white. 

Who spoke of direful sounds and trembled with 
affright. 



6o THE MAGIC MIRROR, 

XVI. 

He pointed at the vision ; drawing near, 

She cried : " The missus' portrait ! yes ! 't is she > 

Took, when she scarce was twenty, many a year, 
Because it pained her lonely heart to see 
Her face so gay and handsome, and to free 

Her saintly mind from worldly thoughts and cares, 
'T was covered by a mirror, goodness me ! 

Who broke it ? I was frightened from my prayers 

And then, an hour ago, sech fearful sounds up- 
stairs ! 

XVII. 

" Jest after Hilda Gaylord came to change 

The book she borrowed as you came/' "And 
pray ! 
Who is this Hilda ? " 'T was a story strange 
The old dame told ; how Hilda came one day 
Like princess of a fairy tale, to stay 
At Neighbor Grain's ; this princess fair, 't was true, 

Taught in the village school, across the way. 
And oft had sat and watched the whole night 

through 
With Madam Vere. But whence she came, no 
mortal knew. 

XVIII. 

" You ought to see her. Why ! she looks, — well 
there ! 
It 's curious that I never thought so, jest 
Exactly like that picture ; I declare ! 



THE MAGIC MIRROR, 6 1 

If Hester Vere, who died away out West, 
Had had a child — I 'd think — well now, I 'm 
blest ! 
Some say she had, and then, her age, jest right 

For Hilda, and, what 's stranger than the rest. 
The missus called her Hester Vere, one night. 
My sakes ! it *s all so plain, right out in black and 
white." 

XIX. 

The truth was out, and Hilda proved next day 
To be the dame's granddaughter ; naught was 
clearer. 
And yet the enchantment ceased not, strange to 
say; 
He found her daily lovelier and dearer, 
And blest his luck, for if, with tastes austerer, 
He had not supped so well, and in a trance 
Levelled the poker at the magic mirror, — 
He had forever lost the golden chance. 
And Hilda had not been the mistress of the 
manse. 




THALIA. 



OFTEN, when the hearth fire smoulders, 
In the evening's deepening gloom, 
There has stoFn a ghostly maiden 
To my lonely, haunted room. 
And dispelled the doubt and gloom. 

At my feet she sits and looks up 
With those great dark eyes at me, 

With a glance now grave, now roguish. 
With her white arms on my knee. 
Childlike, she looks up to me. 

And she tells me weighty secrets 
Of the fairies, of the elves. 

Till the embers, till the grotesque 
Porcelain figures on the shelves. 
Take the forms of dancing elves. 



Through the growing darkness steals a 
Perfume faint from fairy-land, 
62 



THALIA, 63 

And I feel her round arms' pressure, 
Feel her brown hair brush my hand, 
Think that I 'm in fairy-land. 

Then we talk of times long vanished, 

Talk of many a boyish dream, 
Weave, of long-departed fancies. 

Chains that bright and fragile seem 

As a child's glad golden dream. 

Each day, deeper still and clearer, 

I have read in her dark eyes 
Romances of love and fancy, 

Till my very being lies 

In those ghostly, glorious eyes. 

And though I have known and loved her 

For these many weary years. 
Every day, more sweet and childlike. 

Her pale oval face appears. 

For these many long, long years 





CHRISTMAS. 



Al 7EARY were the days of autumn, 
" ' Long and cold the nights of winter, 

And our hearts were colder still ; 
We had drained the cup of sorrow, 
Wandered through the shadowy valley, 

Bowed before the Almighty will. 

Grief had grown subdued and holy, 
For we knew we had a treasure 

In that home, so far away. 
Had a little intercessor. 
An ambassador in heaven, 

Waiting for us night and day. 

By the hearth we sat in darkness. 
With a little chair between us, 

As we sat a year before, 
When we listened for the reindeer's 
64 



CHRISTMAS, 65 

Tinkling bells, and told the many 

Wondrous things of Christmas lore, — 

Sat as when he last was with us ; 
Thus, our sad imaginations 

Would a quaint deception weave, 
And our strange and mournful fancy- 
Try to conjure back his presence 

On that lonely Christmas eve. 

And the time wore on, till, startled 
From my reveries by the pressure 

Of a soft and childish hand, 
Lo ! I saw, between us sitting. 
Just as though he ne'er had journeyed 

To that unknown far-off land. 

Golden-haired, brown-eyed, and dimpled, 
Listening, wondering, and expectant, 

Once again, — our little child. 
But the guileless face was brighter 
With the joy of the immortals. 

With a radiance sweet and mild. 

Thus, the second time, from heaven, 
Like the Christ-child, with a Christmas 

Gift of gladness, he has come ; 
And, invisible to others. 
With his little hands he leads us 

Daily, hourly, nearer home. 



66 



CHRISTMAS. 



And his silent, radiant presence 
Teaches patience, resignation. 

Makes the dark ways bright and plain, 
Calms our hearts and makes us tender 
For all sorrow, want, and suffering, 

Makes us children once again. 





MY NOVEL. 



T WILL write some time a novel, 
•■• Simple, thrilling and romantic ; 
Beautiful shall be the heroine, 
Very beautiful and tender. 

Artfully will I arrange it, 
And contrive to paint her portrait, 
So that she I love will know it 
Instantly for her own picture. 

Almost black shall be her eyebrows 
And her hair's rich wavy masses. 
But her eyes, large, star-like, dreamy, 
Bluer than the sky at midnight. 

Rosy tints, like morn and evening. 
O'er her cheek shall steal and vanish ; 
Round her mouth a smile shall linger, 
And her chin shall have a dimple. 
67 



68 MV NOVEL. 

Every gesture, every outline 
Of the slender, rounded figure ; 
Every gay or sad expression, 
Floating o*er the lovely features, 

Shall suggest some rare old painting ; 
Shall suggest some sweet, quaint poem ; 
On the heart shall leave an imprint 
That shall never be forgotten. 

Almost, yet not quite, a goddess ; 
Sometimes haughty, sometimes roguish ; 
Just enough of faults I '11 give her 
So that one may dare to love her. 

And the youth who loves this maiden, 
From the day he first beholds her, 
Shall be learned, grave and thoughtful, 
Sad, poetical and silent. 

After sighing long in secret, 
He shall write a tender romance, 
Wherein he will be the lover, 
She will be the pretty heroine. 

In this romance, all the long years 
Of his sighing will be numbered ; 
In this romance there will happen 
All the scenes that he has pictured. 

When, from some impending danger, 
In the mountains, on the sea-shore, 



MY NOVEL. 69 

From the flood, or fire, the lover 
Risks his life to save his mistress, — 

She will find, at last, she loves him, 
And contrive some way to say so ; 
Perhaps by sending him an envied 
Bunch of violets from her bosom. 

Thus, the hero and the heroine 
He shall paint with such true colors, 
That she cannot help but see it ; 
Cannot help but know his secret 

And her gentle heart, beleaguered 
By a love so full of fancy. 
And so delicate and constant. 
Shall surrender all its treasures. 

In her voice and in the shadows 
Of her eyes and in her blushes, 
He shall read the story plainly, 
And behold ! my novel 's written. 





MIDNIGHT. 



T^HERE 'S a time at night, when quickly 
•■• The blue of the sky grows dark, 
Hushed is the cricket's chirping, 
Vanished the fire-fly's spark. 

The trees are great black giants. 

Cloaked, and silent, and tall ; 
Each star 's a glittering diamond, 

Each cloud *s a jet-black pall. 

There 's a stir in the solemn darkness, 

As of a wind in the trees. 
As of a brook's low rustle, — 

But 't is not the stream or breeze. 

It swells, like the murmur of tempests, 

Then lessens and sinks away, 
As if 't were the winging up of the souls 

Of those who had died in the day. 
70 



MIDNIGHT, J\ 

Though the world is hid in darkness, 

In my life 's a calm bright light, 
In the quietness of that moment. 

Which comes at the dead of night. 

Then I see though the doubts which beset me, 

As I never before have done. 
And regrets and fierce ambitions 

Fade slowly, one by one. 





THE GAME OF CHESS. 



"X* WAS stinging, blustering winter weather, 
^ How well I recollect the night ! 

When Kate and I played chess together. 
Her beauty in the hearth-fire's light 

Seemed more Madonna-like and rosy ; 

The hours were swift, the room was cosy, 
The windows frosted, silvery white. 

Even now I see that grave face resting 
Upon the hand, so white and small ; 

I see that mystic grace, suggesting 
A painter's dream ; I oft recall 

Her glance, now anxious, gay, or tender ; 

The girlish form, complete yet slender, 
In silhouette against the wall. 

It was not strange that I was mated, 
For 't was my fondly cherished aim. 

I longed to speak, but I was fated, 
The rightful opening never came. 

I pawned my heart for her sweet favor, 
72 



THE GAME OF CHESS. 73 

With every look, some vantage gave her, 
And so, alas ! I lost the game. 

Since then, by fortune, love, forsaken. 

Through checkered years I Ve passed and seen 

My castles fall, my pawns all taken. 

My spotless knights prove traitors mean ; 

And worn, with many a check, I wander 

Like the poor vanquished king, and ponder 
With sadness on my long-lost queen. 




^h^ 




PAQUITA. 



T T was night, and we were anchored, 
^ Off the town of Fernandina ; 
Miles above, we saw the beacon 
Shine from old Ramiro's landing 
Like a star, across the water ; 
And up spoke the captain, saying : 

II. 

" I have seen the fair Paquita, 

She who came, enthralled and left us, 

At St. Augustine, last winter ; 

I have braved the fierce old Argus, 

Braved the anger of Ramiro, 

I have come and seen and conquered." 

III. 

Then with tone and laugh derisive. 
Answered, straightway, Randolph Gordon ; 
" You are still, an empty boaster. 
74 



PAQUITA, 75 

I, myself, have seen Paquita, 

And the month shall scarce have ended. 

Ere I ask you to our wedding." 

IV. 

While they spoke I sat in silence, 
Though my heart was strangely tortured, 
For I, too, had known Paquita, 
When she came to St. Augustine, 
And her face rose up before me. 
Dark and sad, with eyes love lighted, 

V. 

As she looked, when last we parted, 
When she promised to remember. 
"Their's," thought I, "are idle vauntings ; 
I myself will seek Ramiro's, 
And Paquita, she shall tell me 
If *t was all an idle fancy." 

VI. 

Night, once more, the earth had mantled, 
As I sat with Don Ramiro,. 
'Neath Ramiro's broad piazza. 
While his daughter, light as Hebe, 
Came and vanished, bringing Reinas, 
Bringing Cognac or Marsala. 

VII. 

In her dark, sweet face, I vainly 
Sought a look of recognition. 



*](> PAQUITA. 

She was cold and strange and silent, 
Just as beautiful as ever, 
But she did not seem as tender, 
Did not seem the same Paquita. 

VIII. 

But when darker grew the garden, 
And Ramiro's red cigar light 
Seemed the one eye of an ogre, 
Some one stole and stood beside me, 
Some one whispered ^* I remember/' 
Pressed my hand and turned and left me. 

IX. 
As I rose to seek the landing, 
From Ramiro's house departing, 
Came the sound of whispering voices. 
Came the sound of girlish laughter. 
" Surely ! there is some strange secret 
In this household of the Spaniard." 

X. 

As 1 watched Ramiro's beacon, 
On my way across the water. 
All at once it paled and vanished. 
When I came on deck the captain 
Had departed, none knew whither. 
'T was a night of strange surprises — 

XI. 

Strange surprises, never ending. 

For at dawn 't was found that Gordon, 



PAQUITA, yy 

In some curious way, had vanished. 
That day passed, another followed. 
And at night there came two letters — 
This is what the captain wrote me : 

XII. 

" Love has triumphed. Will ! Faquita 
Fled last night with me to Charleston. 
Old Ramiro would have killed her, 
So she said, if he had caught us. 
Please inform the proud Castilian, 
And condole with Randolph Gordon." 

XIII. 
Gordon wrote me, from Savannah : 
** Will ! Faquita 's mine ; we came here 
On the boat which leaves at midnights 
How she loved me ! how she trembled ^ 
Lest our flight should rouse Ramiro ;— - 
I 'm so sorry for the captain.*' 

XIV. 
Rage, despair, and doubt possessed me 
At these tidings, so conflicting. 
Were there, really, two Paquitas ? 
Was my love returned by neither ? 
With these tidings, to Ramiro, 
With these letters, straight I hastened. 

XV. 
Loud and long laughed Don Ramiro, — 
Laughed until his face grew purple ; 



78 PAQUITA. 

In the door-way something rustled, 
And I looked and saw — Paquita ; 
Saw her standing, like a statue, 
With a statue's rounded outlines. 

XVI. 

In the shadows and the dimples 
Of her face a strange smile lingered, 
And a roguish light came dancing 
In her eyes' unfathomed darkness ; 
Like a sweet, embodied riddle. 
Mystic, fanciful, she stood there. 

XVII. 

Speech came back to Don Ramiro — 
Speech came back, though slow and broken ; 
*^ With the captain fled Aurora ; 
Inez, now, is Madam Gordon ; 
Was it not the poor old father 
Got them ready for the journey ? 

XVIII. 

They not know I have three daughters — 
Yes ! Senor ! born all the same time. 
It is twins ? no ? what you call them ? 
And Paquita 's all that 's left me. 
She, Senor ! will make the best wife ; 
You can have her, if you want her.*' 




MENDELSSOHN'S " LIEDER OHNE 
WORTE." 



I 

SWEET SOUVENIR. 

*T^ IS nothing but a picture 

-■• With outlines dim and faint, 
A picture of a young girl, dressed 

In fashion old and quaint. 
In that picture there are graces 

An artist could not paint, 
And a face, the fairest, loveliest, 

E'er possessed by girl or saint. 

In that face there is the tenderest 

Look that maiden ever wore ; 
In that look there 's something tells me 

Of the golden days of yore. 
In those days there was a story, 

Would that I could live it o'er ! 
The story of the passionate love 

I cherish evermore. 
79 



80 ''LIEDER OHNE WORTEr 

7 

CONTEMPLATION. 

At midnight, by the window, 

I sat, till all was still, 
Then pictured her before me 

By passionate strength of will. 

I weighed each trait of her beauty, 
Each charm of mind and soul, 

Till I conjured her before me 
In one sweet, life-like whole. 

With that dreamy look I loved so. 
She stood in the shadowy light. 

Pale and still as a lily 

Alone in a garden at night. 

Her look was kind and tender, 

I never had seen her so. 
She loved me, this dream maiden loved me. 

Though the other was cold as snow. 

44 

LOOKING BACK. 

I Ve gained the mountain top, and turning, 
Look with tearful gaze 
On the path which brings me 
Back to childhood*s days. 



''LIEDER OHNE WORTE:' 8 1 

Childish mountains, like my childish troubles, 
Dwarf and sink from view ; 
Youth's brightest scenes have somehow 
Lost their golden hue. 

Graves of all my hopes and fond ambitions 
Dead so long ago, — 
All my wandering, weary footsteps 
Mark the vale below. 

And, looking back with sad composure. 
On the path of years, 
I am calmer for those vanished tempests, 
Happier for my tears. 





A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 



T TPON the torrent's brink, there stands 
^ A castle, gray and old, 
With drawbridge, barbican and keep, 

With turrets manifold, 
And banners, floating in the sun. 

Like bands of burnished gold. 

High up, above the grated arch, 
The embrasured casements frown ; 

And there, a ladye young and fair. 
For many a day looks down 

The roadway, winding o*er the bridge 
Into the ancient town. 

Upon the fields of waving grain, 

Her mournful glances rest ; 
She watches every cloud that floats 

Beyond the hill's blue crest ; 
Until, at last, an armored knight 

Rides down, from out the west. 
82 



A CASTLE IN NEW ENGLAND. 83 

The vision fades, the scene is changed, 

In one swift, magic whirl ; 
A homely, gabled house succeeds 

This castle of an earl ; 
The princess in the tov/er becomes 

A fair New England girl. 

She sits beneath the porch at eve, 

The time unreckoned flies, 
Her little hands are clasped, her book. 

Unread, before her lies ; 
A fanciful and far-off look 

Is in her tender eyes. 

Across her faintly dimpled cheeks 

The lights and shadows glance. 
Her sweet and thoughtful face is raised. 

She seems as in a trance. 
There is an aureole round her head 

Of glory and romance. 

And this was all a dream of hers, 

Her thought^s fantastic flight ; 
A dream which changed her homely house 

Into a castle bright ; 
A dream which made of farmer Brown 

A handsome, armored knight. 

By homely tasks and trivial cares 
Her life is compassed round ; 



84 A CASTLE IN' NEW ENGLAND. 

Her dreamy knowledge of the world 
In quaint old books is found ; 

Beyond those blue New England hills 
'T is all an unknown ground. 

Yet often, in the air, a strange, 

Mysterious music seems ; 
Old towns and lordly castles rise 

In her romantic dreams ; 
The glow of knighthood's golden days 

Across her pathway streams. 

While there are maids so sweet, shall fame 

Of deeds chivalric fade ? 
Come forth ! O knight ! upon whose shield 

There is no spot or shade. 
And lay your lance in rest, to win 

This fair New England maid ! 





THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 



CACH day more bright, each day with softer 
^ glow, 

At dawn and eve ; the summer time has passed 
Like a long, pleasant revery and lo ! 

This day has come, the loveliest and the last. 

Woods, meadows, corn-fields are like chequered 
squares, 

Painted in various colors, bright and gay. 
Summer, as with a mournful fancy, wears 

Her richest garments, e'er she fades away. 

The soft, clear light's enchantment makes the chain 
Of distant hills seem strangely near at hand. 

And gives to well-known scenes and objects plain 
The glamour and the charm of fairyland. 

A few white clouds, in shapes fantastic, rise 
Above the woods, which crest the highest hill ; 

'T is like the landscape of a dream, it lies 
So deeply calm, so wonderfully still. 

85 



86 THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. 

And there are other clouds and hills and woods, 
In the smooth mirror of the lazy stream ; 

Vague, unattainable, shadowy solitudes 
Of lotus land, a dream within a dream. 

There 's naught in motion, save the quaint balloon 
Of thistle-down ; there is no hum of bees ; 

There 's something ghostly in the cricket's tune, 
The cobwebbed hedge, the shadows of the trees 

The winding brook is choked and half concealed 
By clumps of cat-tails and of golden-rod ; 

The cattle, grazing in the far-off field. 
Are still as figures in the land of Nod. 

The air is filled with something sweet and strange, 
And nature seems to pause and hold her breath, 

Before this sign of an impending change. 

This deep, mysterious calm, which heralds death. 

And now, the wondrous work of nature ends ; 

Now, is its glorious fulness manifest 
In this last, quiet summer's day, which blends 

A solemn beauty and a perfect rest. 





THE SISTERS. 



TN the long night's lonely musing, 
■■• Comes the vision of two sisters 
That I loved in days long vanished — 
Loved, yet knew not which I loved most. 

One was rosy, fair, and dimpled, 
Romping, laughing, dreaming, sighing ; 
By her roguish glance enchanted, 
Queen of all my thoughts, I owned her. 

Dark and mystic was the other, 
Dark and sad and meditative ; 
When her eyes grew soft and tender, 
She it was who seemed the dearest. 



Years have past since we were parted 
By the bitter tongues of envy ; 
Many years, and many changes. 
Like an ocean lie between us. 

87 



88 THE SISTERS. 

But their looks of kindly interest, 
Patience, virtues, tears, and laughter. 
Words of cheer and praise and comfort, 
Gentle ways and sweet refinements, 

Like the stars of night, have lighted 
Me along the world's dark pathway ; 
Like the hands of fairies, shortened 
My apprenticeship in manhood. 

And I weave this little chaplet 
Of the flowers of love and romance, 
For those gentle sisters, long since 
Sleeoing in the silent city. 




THE OCEAN. 



T ONG I watched the ocean, with its mournful, 
■■— ' never 

Ceasing tide, each ship, that from the horizon 
stole, 

Floated by, grew less and vanished, seemed a 
soul, 
That upon the years, from some far shadowy river. 
Slowly steals, until, with sail of strong endeavor, 

Hope and yearning, it sweeps by unto its goal, 

Fades and sinks into oblivion, while the roll 
Of the solemn flood of years goes on forever. 
Now the darkness hides the ocean and the shore. 

And the ships have long since vanished in the 
distance. 
Yet I hear the breakers' dull, monotonous roar 

Tell the story o'er again, with strange insistance, — 
Hear the ancient ocean's hoarse voice evermore 

Chant the mystic, sad refrain of man's existence. 





THE RIVER. 



/^FT have I watched the sunset's mellow light, 
^-^ That through the window streams upon the 
wall, 

Like a mysterious river, rise and fall. 
The lengthening shadows deepen into night, 
And still, as if a part indefinite, 

Of life and time and hope, a part of all 

The thoughts and scenes and joys that I recall. 
Thou flowest on, O river deep and bright ! 
And I must watch, without the power to stay, 

Thy tide that surges on resistlessly, 
Thy dancing waves that bear the years away. 

O thou relentless flood ! give back to me, 
The life, that on thy current, day by day, 

Is floating, floating, floating to the sea ! 




90 




THE CASTLE BY THE SEA, 



A CASTLED crag, half hidden in a wreath 
^^ Of ocean mist, an eagle's circling flight, 

The little islands, reefs and breakers white - 
Of a broad sea, whose waters dash and seethe 
Against the rock, a thousand feet beneath, 

The sudden gleaming of a beacon light 

From the old tower upon the crag, when night 
His gloomy shadow o'er the earth doth breathe. 
And answering watch fires, blazing near and far 

From every headland, — all that I have told, 
And more, in evening sky and cloud and star, 

Pictured above the horizon, I behold. 
And magic scenes create, that changeful are. 

As those same hues of crimson and of gold. 



9T 




THE MOHAWK VALLEY, FROM RICH- 
FIELD HILL. 



T CLIMBED a winding roadway to the brim 
^ Of a gigantic basin, walled around 

With hills and hills and hills, whose tops were 
crowned 
With forest dense, and whose remotest rim. 
Gorge seamed, through summer haze looked blue 
and dim. 

Far down a lazy snake-like river wound, 

And all was silence, perfect and profound. 
I saw the white clouds' shadows slowly skim 
O'er meadows, cornfields, woods, as bright and 
still 

As painted squares, the bluest dome expand 
From ridge to ridge, and 'neath a sheltering hill 

The whitest, smallest, sleepiest hamlet stand. 
Surely ! the world's fierce tide ne'er rose, until 

It stole within this dreamy wonderland. 



92 







T 



THE GORGE. 



DEFORE me, standing at the craggy head 

^ Of a great gorge, the wildest, loveliest scene 

Of nature lies : far down in the ravine. 
Choked with great hemlocks, and the yellow and 

red 
Of birch and maple, like a silver thread, 

A small stream winds and widens to the sheen 

Of a blue lake, that, glassy and serene 
With distance, at the gorge's mouth is spread ; 
Marked with white farm-house and tree-tufted hill. 

For miles beyond, fields ploughed and green 
extend. 
Even to the horizon's edge, until 

Like pleasant thought, that in a dream doth end, 
The vista, grown more faint and soft and still, 

Its hues, at length, with heaven's pale gray doth 
blend. 



93 




TWILIGHT. 



]\ A AIDEN ! who veiled in robes of sombre shade 
^ ^ ^^ Dost haunt the glen and through the forest 
roam, 

What time the clouds float o'er the heaven's blue 
dome, 
In changing, fading, glorious hues arrayed — 
Art thou, indeed, a sad and lovelorn maid, 

Or shy and gentle spirit, who doth come 

Each day, at evening, from her mossy home. 
Some grotto, hidden 'neath a wild cascade ? 
I seek thee many times, and suddenly. 

When the bright tints have died out from the 
west. 
With sweet, pale face, as in a revery. 

Passes the gray-eyed maiden of my quest. 
Through copse, through glen, in vain I follow thee. 

The first star twinkles and thou vanishest. 




94 




THE FOUNTAIN, 



T^HE fountain's crystal depths contain 
^ For thee, O maiden ! fair as shy, 

A realm of fairy mystery, 
For there, enchanted, long hath lain 
A strange and beautiful domain. 

Look down upon its trees and sky, 

Its towers, its white clouds floating by. 
As through some wizard's window pane ! 
And lo ! even now, a princess fair 

• Gazed from those depths, as if she might 
Enchanted be, awaiting there 

The coming of the valiant knight. 
Who seeketh always, everywhere. 

To aid and succor beauty bright. 




95 




THE SHELL. 



Tl 7ITH wonder great, I heard a small voice say, 
^ ^ From the deep coral chamber of a shell : 

" A woful maid am I, of those that dwell 
Beneath the sea ; a curious power have they, 
To walk as spirits ; while I thus did stray 

It stormed, and I in deepest slumber fell 

Within this hollow, many-tinted shell, 
Which, when I woke, upon the sea-beach lay. 
Because a prisoner I must be, until 

Within the ocean's depths, there, I entreat 
That thou return the shell, and often will 

I cause large pearls to glisten at thy feet, 
And o'er the waves' sad music sound, and fill 

Thy dreams with maidens' faces, pale and sweet." 




96 




VALESKA. 



"\ /ALESKA ! fair unknown ! whose portrait graces 
^ The old oak room, — what fancies strange arise 

At thy slight figure's antiquated guise, 
Thy white, round neck half hid in dainty laces, 
And palest, dreamiest, ghostliest of faces ! 

I love thee, for the tender thought that lies 

In the sweet shadows of thy hazel eyes, 
And on thy lips, in mournful, lingering traces. 
At night, I gaze upon thy beauty, quaintly 

Glowing above the hearth-fire's ruddy flame, 
Until the hour when, queen-like, sad and saintly. 

Thou stepp'st down from thy portrait ; thy dear 
name 
I speak — and starting, see thee, smiling faintly 

A mystic smile, fade back into the frame. 




97 




DUSK. 



Tl JE are all here again, in the twilight : 

' ^ The dark, swaying trees and the sky, 
The wanderer wind and the ivy. 

The clouds that sail up and float by. 

The flowers, the grass and I. 

The shadows grow broader and deeper, 

I hear the wandering breeze 
Rustling up in the branches 

And telling the solemn trees, 

Of prairies and of seas. 

And a vision strange steals upon me, 

In that changing fanciful light, 
A small apparition comes, chasing 

A moth in its zigzag flight — 

'T is a little child, in white. 

In the swing, 'neath the giant elm-tree, 
He slowly sways to and fro, 
98 



DUSK, 99 

Lost in a day-dream and wondering 
If the full, white clouds are snow, 
And what makes the fire-flies glow. 

The picture has long since vanished 
In the gloom of an evening mild, 

Yet still in the past I linger. 

With thoughts of those days beguiled, 
When I was that little child. 





THE WIND IN THE TREES. 



TN the night I lie by the window, 
*■ And hear the wind in the trees. 
And give to its ceaseless rustling 
And sighing, what meaning I please. 

At first, 't is the wash of the ocean 
On a rugged, desolate shore ; 

Or a fire on the hearth, in winter, 
Beginning to flicker and roar. 

*T is a waterfall, in the distance. 
Whose cadence floats to the ear, 

Now a far off, indistinct murmur. 
Now thundering, loud and clear. 



'T is some giant, imprisoned spirit. 
Who groans and struggles in vain. 

Writhing up in his anguish. 
Then sinking to earth again. 



THE WIND IN THE TREES. loi 

'T is the endless war for existence, 

Waged by the hosts of mankind, 
Now the battle's rush sways toward me, 

Now it dies away on the wind. 

And, at last, *t is the conflict within me, 
Of thoughts that will never cease, 

Till the dawn looks gray through the tree tops. 
And the night winds sink in peace. 

Thus long in the night, I listen 

To this strangest of symphonies. 
This music, so quaint and solemn. 

The sound of the wind in the trees. 





THE OAK WOOD. 



T WANDERED through a holy, gloomy 
^ Oak wood, where 'neath violets wild 
A brooklet murmured softly, faintly, 
As the praying of a child. 

There fell a shadowy dread upon me. 
There came a rustling strange and low, 

As if the wood might tell me something, 
That yet my heart was not to know. 

As if to me it might discover 

Some secret of God's mystic will. 

Then seemed it suddenly to tremble 
Before God's presence and was still. 





JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 



EACH breaker rolled in, like a smooth green 
wall, 
With crest o'er curling as it neared the land, 
Where into foam it dashed with deafening brawl 

At Philip's feet : yet he, of ocean's grand 
And melancholy voice, unconscious all. 

Gazed downward fixedly upon the sand ; 
For airy footprints, small beyond compare, 
Proved that some graceful nymph had wandered 
there. 

II. 

Along a wild shore, full of lonely charms. 
These traces following, he found at last 

A nook fantastic, hollowed by the storms, 
Where, in the shadow of a stranded mast, 

Her brown hair half concealing her round arms. 
With book clasped in her hands, lay sleeping fast, 

Like that famed princess of the days of old, 

A maiden of fair face and gentle mold. 

103 



I04 JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL. 

III. 

As he beheld the dark, fantastic face, 

There rose the fabric of a strange romance. 

She seemed the daughter of some Eastern race — 
A Spanish maid, — by some mysterious chance 

Here shipwrecked ; for a nameless foreign grace 
Hung like a dream upon her gentle trance, 

And clothed with magic charm from head to feet 

The girlish figure, slender, yet complete. 

IV. 

Long time he gazed, then stole with noiseless 
tread 

From that enchanted scene of fairy-land. 
Not knowing that, had he but turned his head. 

He would have seen her dark eyes wide expand, 
And fill with roguish sunbeams as she read 

These lines, which he had traced upon the sand : 
" Fair dreamer ! know that a poor youth this day 
Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away ! " 

V. 

Time fled ; once more he came, aye ! many a day 
He wandered by the sea, but 't was in vain. 

A sweet illusion, she had passed away ; 
And like an airy dream, came not again. 

Time passed ; the earth with autumn tints was gay, 
And in a rumbling, hurrying railway train. 

Past pleasant vales, blue hills, and forests dun. 

All day he journeyed toward the setting sun. 



JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, 105 

VI. 

'T was dark, when to a stage-coach queer and old 
He changed, for he must travel all night still 

Across a mountain roadway, to behold 
His future bride ; for, by a curious will, 

His Uncle John had left his long-saved gold 
And goodly lands in trust for him, until — 

Condition strange, of a most strange bequest, — 

He married Marcia Brown, some girl out West. 

VII. 

The coach rolled on, and with a heart like lead, 
He saw, in fancy, his prospective bride. 

Some awkward country girl, and wished instead 
*T were that fair dreamer by the whispering tide, 

Who from his quest to shadowy realms had fled. 
A few stars twinkled on his lonely ride ; 

The village lights, like dancing fire-flies, winked. 

And woods and fences grew more indistinct. 

VIII. 

The mantled figure of the traveller strange, 

Who shared his ride, had faded from his view ; 

His thoughts assumed a more fantastic range ; 
'T was fairy-land ; a courser, good and true, 

The stage-coach had become with magic change ; 
The princess had been found, and wakened 
through 

A loving kiss ; and he, the lucky knight. 

Was bearing his fair prize to realms of light. 



I06 JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, 

IX. 

He woke, upstarting, at his journey's goal, 

And found the stranger gone, the morning gray. 

From a small nosegay in his button-hole 

There came a perfume faint, and, strange to say, 

Around the flowers, traced on a crumpled scroll, 
These foolish lines of his had found their way : 

" Fair dreamer ! know that a poor maid this day 

Gazed on thy face, and loved, and passed away." 

X. 

He sat upon the porch with Geoffrey Brown ; 

It was a square brick house of days gone by, 
And faced the river, toward whose banks sloped 
down 

The checkered squares of meadow, corn, and rye ; 
And while they talked of changes in the town, 

Of prices, politics, demand, supply, 
Philip thought sadly of the startled dame. 
Who vanished in the kitchen as he came. 

XI. 

Then to that romance by the lonely shore 
Of ocean his sad fancy turned again. 

And to his curious ride the night before 

With that strange voyager, who must have been 

His fairy princess, found and lost once more ; 
Flown like a dream, he knew not where or when ; 

And all the time old Geoffrey talked away, 

And told what crops did best in sand or clay, — 



JOHN WENTWORTH'S WILL, lO/ 

XII. 

Told, while it seemed a changeless, far-off hum, 
How he and Wentworth went to school together ; 

Talked of his short-horn cattle, and of some 
Uninteresting lawsuit, of the weather, 

And lastly of his Marcia, who had come 

From visiting ^^ way down East '* ; she was 
''rather" 

The smartest, prettiest lady ever seen, 

And cooked, spoke French, and warbled like a 
queen. 

XIII. 

He soon should see her ; just then, on the stair, 
Philip heard light, quick footsteps coming down, 

And all at once beheld a vision rare. 

And saw his princess change to Marcia Brown ; 

Her face, resplendent, sweet beyond compare, 
Had not the slightest shadow of a frown ; 

And so it came that Philip did fulfil 

The strange conditions of '' John Wentworth's 
will." 





A PANTOMIME. 



/^^IRCLED by a laughing, chattering, 
^^ Merry group of little girls, 
Like a rose girt round with pansies, 

Or a sapphire set with pearls. 
He beheld her at the children's 

Pantomime on Christmas night, 
Radiant, queen-like, *neath the magic 

Of the music and the light. 

On a frosty winter's night. 



Harlequin and Columbine 

Phantoms seemed, from fairy-land ; 
But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 

Changed all things with swift command 
Into laughter, as a wizard's 

Touch turns every thing to gold. 
She, alone, amid the laughing 

Throng, sat silent, pale and cold. 

Like some portrait framed in gold. 
io8 



A PANTOMIME, IO9 

From that hour a glorious vision 
Haunted him by night and day ; 

Never from his fancy vanished 
That pale face, those eyes of gray. 

Round her home he often lingered, 
In the twilight's deepening gloom. 

Watching till the slender shadow, 
'Gainst the curtain of her room, 
Should dispel the doubt and gloom. 

Till the spring and summer faded. 

And the autumn's richness passed. 
And to her enchanting presence 

He had found his way at last. 
Those were glimpses into heaven. 

Those short hours that flew so fast, 
'T was a strange, idyllic romance, 

Far too bright, too sweet to last. 

All his hopes and dreams he told her, 

While her gentle heart forgave 
That he gazed so long and fondly 

At her beauty pale and grave. 
But at night the spell was ended ; 

From her side he must away ; 
To some strange toil he was fated, 

What it was he might not say, — 

Sad and silent, stole away. 

Winter came ; once more her presence 
Graced the Christmas pantomime ; 



no A PANTOMIME. 

Ne'er before had scenes so golden 
Been since old Arcadian time. 

But the clown, the wond'rous Guido, 
When the mimic play was done, 

As he bowed before the foot-lights, 
Seemed the prince of smiles and fun- 
But the pantomime was done. 

And he suddenly looked upward. 
And his eyes met hers by chance, 

'Neath the painted mask were features 
She knew well ; a long, long glance, 

Full of grave surprise and pity, 
Sad, yet cold, she gave the clown ; 

And he saw love's long-wrought fabric 
Tremble, crack, and tumble down, — 
Saw she ne'er could love the clown. 




# 




JACK'S LETTER TO BOB. 



"T^EAR Bob ! I am going to be married. 
^^ But before saying more, I must write 
About something which weighs on my conscience. 

Of course, you remember that night. 
In the carnival season at Venice, 

When we trained through that dampest of towns, 
With that party of jolly Venetians, 

That at first we mistook for the Browns ? 

How, after the ball, I was married, 

In joke, to an angel in black? 
To that ghostly and dark-haired Marchesa, 

The madcap queen of the pack ? 
Her mask simply heightened the romance, 

And the joke seemed immense, till I knew 
That that rascally priest was a real one. 

Which made me uncommonly blue. 

For they said that the marriage was legal. 
And things took a serious shape, 
III 



112 JACK'S LETTER TO BOB, 

Till you got up a duel and killed me, 

To get me out of the scrape, 
And I took the next steamer for Naples, 

And left my fair widow to fate ; — 
It 's queer how her eyes come and haunt me, 

Whenever I 'm thinking of Kate. 

I could kick myself well, when I think that 

I played such an asinine role, 
And I pray that you '11 bury the secret 

Deep down in your innermost soul. 
For my Kate would make things rather lively 

For me, if she ever found out. 
And now I will tell in what manner 

Our little affair came about. 

We met on the steamer from Naples, 

Whence I sailed, as you know, for the States, 
And at table kind fortune had placed me 

In the chair which was opposite Kate's. 
She 's a friend of the Browns, Bob ! a beauty 

With manners both arch and demure ; 
And she 's tall, and her eyes, if you saw them. 

Would remind you of Venice, I 'm sure. 

In the nook, just back of the wheel-house. 
We talked of things joyous and grave. 

Saw the waters grow dark in the twilight. 
And the moon's silver bridge cross the wave. 

The rest is the usual story. 
Which no one knows better than you. 



JACK'S LETTER TO BOB, II3 

We *11 be married to-night, and I '11 pause here, 
And write you some more when we 're through. 

Postscript, 

Well ! it 's done, Bob ! and would you believe it ? 

She knows all about that affair, — 
And that was the Browns* party, — great Caesar ! 

They did us up Brown, I declare ! 
And I love her the more (but this follows. 

Of course, when such cases arise). 
For I Ve married — ^just think ! — my own widow, 

Je — rusalem ! ! Yours, Jack Vansize. 





MADELINE ON BASE-BALL. 



"XIZHAT a number of nicely dressed people ! I 'm 
^ " awfully glad that we came, 
And you '11 be surprised when you find that I 'm 

posted so well on the game. 
Those buff-colored shirts and red stockings are 

lovely, I know that they '11 win ; 
And that little man there must be short-stop, for his 

head would n't come to my chin. 

Those three cushions down in the meadow, I sup- 
pose, are to sit on and rest, 

If they had them up here 't would be nicer ; just 
see how that woman is dressed ! 

The one with the crimson plush mantle, and the 
hat with the ribbons and plume ; 

I Ve been watching that couple this long time, I 'm 
sure they 're a bride and a groom. 

Now, why does the pitcher feel of the ball, every 

time he commences to throw ? 
To see if its properly curved ? And the catcher, 

poor man ! he 's consumptive, I know, 
114 



MADELINE ON BASE^BALL, I15 

Or why does he wear that great pad on his chest ? 

Did you hear those men laugh ? I declare ! 
It makes me quite nervous and frightened, and 

look at them now ! how they stare ! 

There 's Alice and George just arriving ; that 's her 

trick, always coming in late, 
Oh, Vanitas Van-Vanitorum ! please see if my hat 

is on straight ! 
What 's that ? Struck a fowl ? Oh ! how could he ? 

That man has no feeling or sense. 
Poor little thing ! I don't see it, it must have crept 

under the fence. 

Stole what ? Stole a base ? Well ! I wonder such 

things are allowed on the ground ! 
And where on earth has he put it ? And what will 

he do when it 's found ? 
Caught napping at second ? Poor fellow ! he must 

have been frightfully tired. 
There 're the Smiths over there in a landau — is it 

theirs, or one that they Ve hired ? 

The red-stockings whitewashed ? What nonsense ! 

That 's the silliest thing in base-ball : 
And why is n't kalsomine better, if they Ve got to 

do It at all ? 
Well ! you don't look as if you 'd enjoyed it. I '11 

wager you 're glad that it 's done. 
But 't was awfully nice and excitmg — and who, did 

you tell me, had won ? 




SITTING ON THE STAIR. 



" A RT going to the ball this eve ? " 
-^^ This was Jack's question, and I grieve 

To say, the evening found me there. 
On coming down, I picked my way 
Between the couples, still or gay, 

Who sat upon the stair. 

Half down I paused, the days of yore. 
The old, old times came back once more. 

In the gay turmoil and the glare 
I stood and lost myself, and dreamed 
I saw /ler face ; once more we seemed 

To sit upon the stair 

Once more the old sweet things I said ; 
In measure swayed her lovely head 

To some gay waltz's witching air ; 
Though draughts came whistling from above, 
I felt no draughts but draughts of love 

When sitting on the stair. 
ii6 



SITTING ON THE STAIR. 11/ 

The music ceased, I '11 ne'er forget 
Its dreamy sadness, lingering yet 

In her dark, moistened eyes, ** I swear ! 
I 'd give the world to-night to see 
That girl, who never more by me 

Will sit upon the stair. 

Since then I Ve climbed the stairs of life, 
I *ve had my part of toil and strife, 

And " — my sad revery ended there. 
For, — first a giggle, then a cough. 
Then rose a voice which said, " Come off ! 

Don't stand upon the stair ! " 




THE BOSTON GIRL, 



T TOLD her of a maid whose mind 

•*• Was filled with tender thoughts and fancies, 

A lovely being of the kind 

They write about in old romances. 
" Knowest thou," said I, "this maiden fair. 

Whose beauty doth my thoughts beguile ? " 
She answered with a dreamy air : 

'' Well, I should smile ! " 

" Her cheeks possess the rose's hue. 

No form is daintier or completer. 
No hair so brown, no eyes so blue. 

No mouth is tenderer or sweeter. 
The favored youth who gains the hand 

Of this fair girl will ne'er regret it." 
With modest grace she added : *^ And 
Don't you forget it ! " 

" O thou dear mistress of my heart ! 
My angel ! let me kneel before thee 

ii8 



THE BOSTON GIRL, 1 19 

And say how heavenly sweet thou art, 
And how devoutly I adore thee." 

She turned away her lovely head, 
And with a languid look that fired 

My soul, in murmured accents said : 
" You make me tired ! '* 





THE DEATH-BED OF MRS. OTLAHERTY. 



" TJ EAR me last wurruds ! Faix ! there 's 

-*■ -■• O'Shaughnessy, 
That wurruld's thafe ! — owes me ninepince hap- 

peny ; 
And there *s Phil Coyne, with his decaiving thricks, 
Owes me five shillin's ; and there 's Pathrick Free 
By that same token owes me two and six, 
The craythur ! May the divil howld him fast ! ** 
" The ould woman is sinsible to the last ! " 

" Give me a dhrop ! Arrah ! where was I thin ? — 
And I owe Micky O'Nail wan pound tin. 
And Phelim McCarthy two pounds, and I owe 
Three pounds to Jimmy Hone, and Mrs. Flynn 
Wan pound sivin shillin's two pince happeny, — no ! 
'T is two pince and three farthin's, by your laves." 
" Howly St. Pathrick / Hear now how she raves! " 





THE BEAUTIFUL TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 



T WOULD like to say, beforehand, 
-■■ That it always makes me smile, 
To watch those travelling agents. 

Who sling the greatest style. 
They dress like princes of the blood, 

Yet any man of sense 
Can tell a regular gentleman 

From those commercial gents. 



I recollect a man named Briggs, 

A certain travelling swell, 
When I tended bar at Smithville 

In the Buckingham hotel. 
*T was the time when we were boarding 

The star variety show, 
With the beautiful tight-rope dancer, 

Signora Delarito. 



122 THE TIGHT-ROPE DANCER. 

Now Briggs had been there fifteen days, 

And in the show each night, 
Had watched that tight-rope dancer, 

With rapturous delight ; 
For on the fair Signora 

He was completely gone, 
And for bouquets to sling at her 

His samples lay in pawn. 



One night Briggs rigged himself up fine, 

And when the show was o*er. 
Went up the stairs, and hung around 

The fair Signora's door. 
And when that tight-rope dancer came. 

And waltzed up to her room. 
Although what then and there transpired 

Is wrapped in deepest gloom — 



We heard an awful crash, and Briggs 

Came flying down the stairs,, 
Followed closely by a hamper. 

And a trunk and several chairs. 
When he reached the bottom landing, 

He was tired and took a rest ; 
Then he picked himself up sadly, 

And took the first train West. 



THE TIGHT^ROPE DANCER. 



123 



Soon a fresh commercial tourist 

Took the road in Briggs' stead ; 
And that star variety phalanx 

Skipped their bill, one night, and fled. 
And busted up at Yankton, 

Which I think was their best plan. 
And that " beautiful tight-rope dancer," 

She turned out to be a man. 





HOW THEY PAID THE CHURCH DEBT 
AT SMITHVILLE. 



A T Smithvllle once, to help the church, 
^~^ We gave an amateur play. 
And set up *^ Julius Caesar *' 

In a most astounding way. 
The stars were Oscar Johnson, 

Sam Brown, Bill Jones, and me ; 
And the way that Jones played Caesar 

Was a frightful thing to see. 

At first the applause was great ; we played 

For all the parts were worth ; 
And the audience was n't critical 

And did n't want the earth ; 
Till William Jones, as usual. 

Spoiled the play by getting tight. 
And the whole thing somehow ended 

In a regular Smithville fight. 

We gave them ancient Romans points — 
Except, it must be said, 
124 



PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT. 12$ 

When Cassius did n't know his part, 

And sang a song instead. 
When Brutus* false calves slewed around, 

At which some people talked ; 
And the curtain stuck when Caesar died, 

And the corpse arose and walked. 

But when Mark Antony got up 

Where Csesar's body lay. 
To speak the funeral speech, which is 

The best thing in the play. 
The audience laughed and roared, and he 

Soon knew the reason why 
When he saw the corpse, which sat upright 

And winked with its left eye. 

Jones was a most ambitious man, 

And he thought 't was his best chance. 
And rising from his bier began 

An original Fejee dance. 
Such conduct in a corpse you *11 own 

It was exceeding queer ; 
Then Antony, whose speech was spoiled. 

Got straightway on his ear. 

And from the rostrum stepped, and went 

To put a head on Bill, 
And they two waltzed around the stage 

In a wild and reckless mill. 
Then the Roman soldiers somehow, 

In the scrimmage took a hand. 



126 PAYING THE CHURCH DEBT, 

And the Roman populace followed 
With the members of the band. 

The audience cheered the Romans on, 

For they thought 't was in the play, 
But the truth dawned on their minds about 

The time the stage gave way. 
Then some one raised the cry of " fire " 

And turned out all the lights, 
And that there row was worse than them 

Old Gladiators' fights. 

The language that was used that night 

Would be awful to relate. 
And the Romans from that play went home 

In a terribly used-up state. 
Seven ears and noses were sewed on. 

And a dozen fractures set. 
But we took three hundred dollars in, 

And paid that old church debt. 




THE BALLADE OF CAMPANINI DE LANCY. 



^TT WAS at Smithville, when *^ Norma " was given 

-'■ By De Lancy's Opera Co.; 
The assemblage was brilliant and cultured — 

Fifty cents was the price of the show ; 
And I think that 't was well for Bellini 

That he died several years ago. 

What a storm of applause, and what glitter 

Of bright eyes and calcium lights ! 
When De Lancy, the tenor robusto, 

Came down from the empyrean heights. 
Where he soared in his duet with Norma, 

In a cocked hat, a sword, and red tights. 

How gayly he winks toward the boxes. 
Where the bank clerk's daughters recline ; 

Where the plumber sits in his velvet coat, 
And the solitaire pin doth shine 

Of the man who owneth a twentieth part 
Of a share in a telephone line. 
127 



128 CAMPANINI DE LA JVC V. 

But why does he start and grow livid, 
As he turns to the orchestra chairs ? 

And why does he falter, then dart through the flies, 
And escape down the private back stairs ? 

And who is that man whose fish-like eye 
From the front row steadily glares ? 

The curtain came down, and the gas-lights 

Went out, and the music was still ; 
For that man with the horrible grin, 

Whose gaze made De Lancy ill. 
Was the landlord from down in Ohio, 

Where they skipped without paying the bill. 





AN ANGEL. 



" TS it you, Jack ? I thought you 'd unearth me, 

A For dancing, you know, I don't care. 
So I quietly stole from the music, 

The laughter and splendor and glare, 
For a rest on the cool, dark piazza. 

My cigar 's out ; come, give me a light ! 
And I '11 tell you the dream which absorbed me 

Out here in the calm summer night. 



" The silver-edged mountains of cloudland 

Had softened the light of the moon. 
And the fire-flies seemed dancing the lanciers 

To the ball-room's far-away tune ; 
The breezes were rustling and whispering 

Up there, in the trees overhead. 
And there came a faint scent of syringas. 

Like the perfume of days that are fled. 
129 



I30 AN ANGEL, 

" And my thoughts went back to a village 

Somewhere in the hills, to the time 
When my hopes and my visions were golden, 

And life had a halo sublime ; 
To an old house under the elm trees, 

Which was made, by the romance and mirth 
Of a pretty and fanciful maiden, 

The dearest spot on the earth. 

" In my dream. Jack ! I saw her, her eyes had 

That same sweet look as of yore. 
And I felt for a time all the vanished 

Enchantment surround me once more. 
But alas ! the glamour, the magic 

Of youth are faded and lost. 
And she — well ! I found she was mortal. 

Though many a heartache it cost. 

" And so, I was sitting here dreaming. 

And striving to think that 't was best 
That the romance, the freshness were ended, 

That life seemed a pitiful jest. 
And how did you like your fair partner ? 

You were sitting alone on the stair, 
And that rose which you have there, resembles 

The one that she wore in her hair — 

" Yes ! I know she *s vivacious and lovely, 

And that she 's an angel, I own. 
But a snare seemed to lurk in her dimples, 

And her laugh had a traitorous tone. 



AN ANGEL. 



131 



Introduce me ? — well, no ! for the truth is, 

That beautiful vision of lights 
That angel of clay, I once worshipped, — 

Is the girl that you danced with to-night." 





A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 



OH ! sing that song, from out the olden time ! 
Whose burden was the " sixpence of the 
crown/' 
Glad sign of wealth, those days of deeds sublime. 
And that great king, whose fame is handed 
down, 
From age to age, by pockets full of rye. 
And that immortal dish, the singing blackbird pie. 

The sun was high above the eastern hill. 

Yet, in the royal palace, every room 
Was closely curtained, sombre, dark, and still. 

And in the gilded parlor's stately gloom. 
By the dim light, which stole through painted 

panes, 
Counted the sordid king, his vast, ill-gotten gains. 

The tap'stried warriors trembled overhead 

Like threatening ghosts of foes in battle slain. 

Unmoved, he counted on, and counting, said : 
" Great Scott ! there is a sixpence short again." 
132 



A SONG OF SIXPENCE. 1 33 

The curtains parted, through the room, unseen, 
Stole, like a lovely ghost, his fair, unrivalled queen. 

With many a fearful backward glance, she passed 
The banquet hall, which the preceding night 

Had filled with stains of wassail, and at last. 
Entered the pantry, like a ray of light. 

And there did break her weary fast, with bread 

Whiter than driven snow, with honey thickly 
spread. 

Fit subject for a painter, there she stood. 
Her beauty heightened by the quaint array 

Of barrels, drawers, and tins of all things good, — 
But hush ! a step was heard to come that way ; 

She shrank with fear, her very heart was stilled. 

Pale grew that dimpled cheek, with bread and 
honey filled. 

" Ah, me ! that sixpence of the king ! " she cried ; 

"Why did I prospect in the old man's vest ? " 
She heard the door slammed to and locked out- 
side ; 

Months passed away, her fate is only guessed ; 
Perhaps they found her after many a day, 
A skeleton, white bleached, alas ! we cannot say. 

Around the palace, so the books agree. 
The royal garden lay, and there, the maid. 

As fair a maid as one would wish to see. 
In blue silk gown and hose of ebon shade, 



134 ^ SONG OF SIXPENCE, 

For pastime, hung upon a golden line, 
Her festive sovereign's shirts, four ply and super- 
fine. 

When, lo ! there came a bird, a bird of prey 

It must have been, though writ *^ a little bird," 
And bit that sweet maid, that she swooned away ; 
And though what then transpired was never 
heard, 
O ! thrice unhappy maid ! we know, too well. 
That the sweet scent of flowers thou nevermore 
didst smell. 

And they are gone, aye ! ages long ago, 

King, queen, and maid, their very graves un- 
known ; 

The royal palace, like last April's snow, 
Has vanished, nor is left a single stone ; 

And all their wealth and beauty, power and fame, 

Are but a mournful tale, an empty, idle name. 










JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 



/"^ARVED with impossible figures, a massive and 

^-^ curious timepiece 

Stood, in colonial years, by Jonathan Blake's ample 
fireplace — 

Stood there, ghostly and grim, with a flintlock and 
sword crossed above it. 

And, till the date of this story, at sundown the 
fourteenth of August, 

Seventeen seventy-and-seven, the time of the siege 
of Fort Stanwix, 

Ancient, stately, and quaint, from its case like an 
old Gothic castle, 

Ticked away, without ceasing, in solemn, harmoni- 
ous cadence. 

Jonathan Blake's pretty daughter Dorothy sat by 
the window. 

Turning a flax-wheel and singing, but paused, as 
with terrible clatter 

Open the door flew and in rushed a score of red- 
coated soldiers, 

135 



136 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 

And from the cellar to rafters, seeking a fugitive 
prisoner, 

Turned over tables and chairs and fathomed dark 
corners with bayonets. 

Rosy the flush that succeeded the pallor of Dorothy's 
cheek, when, 

Finding him not, they relinquished their search and 
departed. 

Then, with supreme indignation, hiding her maid- 
enly fears, and 

Drawing herself up as high as a rather small figure 
permitted. 

She, to the humble excuses preferred by the English 
lieutenant. 

Answered with all the disdain that a pair of dark 
eyes could exhibit. 

Now comes the wonderful part of the tale, for be- 
fore they had vanished 

Over the hill by the river, the door of the clock flew 
wide open ; 

Forth from its cavernous chamber, in uniform tat- 
tered and blood-stained, — 

Forth, like a shadow, a youth stole, and knelt at 
the feet of the maiden. 

Kissing her hand, and then like a shadow swiftly 
departed. 

Jonathan Blake was rich. His waving cornfields, 

his woodlands 
Stretched by the beautiful Mohawk and faded away 

in the distance. 



JONA THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 1 37 

Jonathan Blake was rich, and Jonathan sorely was 

troubled — 
Troubled beholding the havoc wrought by those 

red-coat marauders, — 
Wrought overnight, and discovered at dawn of the 

following morning. 
Grain bins were emptied, the cornfields were tram- 
pled as though by an army, 
Haystacks lay smoking in ashes, and oxen and 

horses had vanished. 
Sadly he reckoned his loss, and hoping for some 

compensation. 
Rashly determined to start for St. Leger*s camp at 

Fort Stanwix, 
Twenty-one miles up the river, and fifteen miles 

through the forest. 
Little lame Solomon Pitkin, a scheming and envious 

neighbor. 
Afterwards found to have been for months in the 

pay of the British, 
Volunteered to go with him, and so they departed 

together. 

Never returned from that journey, Jonathan Blake 

or his comrade. 
Whether waylaid by the red-men, or carried off by 

the English, 
Tidings there came not ; and never, though long 

and patiently sought, was 
Found the magnified treasure with which report had 

possessed him, — • 



138 JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK, 

Hundreds and hundreds of dollars, 't was rumored, 
in gold and in silver. 

Floating southward, the white clouds, like souls of 

the days of the summer. 
Sank o'er the blue hills, the heavens grew cheerless 

and wintry, the bleak winds 
Moaned through the lonely gorges and leafless 

boughs of the forest. 
So came the winter and passed, and the pretty and 

fanciful maiden 
Changed to the staid Mistress Hawthorne, the wife 

of the fugitive prisoner, 
Roger Hawthorne, the youth whom the treacherous 

maiden delivered. 
Only to render tenfold a captive unto her bright 

eyes. 
Though as a timepiece its worth had departed since 

Jonathan's journey, 
Still the old clock in its corner, with queer and 

fidgety manner. 
Ticked as if it possessed some deep and mysterious 

secret ; 
And as the years passed away, in the darkness of 

evening its quaint voice 
Often brought back to the lovers the time when 

the slender young ensign. 
Wedged in its coffin-like chamber, his ruthless pur- 
suers evaded. 

Years rolled on, and the Hawthornes — their chil- 
dren and children's children — 



JONATHAN BLAKE'S CLOCK. 1 39 

Peacefully slept in the church-yard, unknown in the 

beautiful city, 
Reared on the spot where their dwelling stood in 

the whispering forest. 
Long since, the loving tradition about the old clock 

had departed. 
Owned by some careless descendant, it slumbered 

away in the attic, 
Covered with lumber and dust ; until, asking for 

just such a timepiece, 
Came to his door, at dusk one day, a mysterious 

stranger, 
. Bent, and lame in one leg, a little old man in knee- 
breeches. 
With a cunning and sinister eye, and dusty, black, 

thread-bare apparel. 
Who, when the price of the dingy and ponderous 

relic was settled. 
Paid it in queer old silver, and shut himself up in 

the attic. 
After the noise of a hammer and chisel some time 

had resounded. 
Suddenly all was still, and they who ascended to 

seek him 
Found the clock lying in fragments, but where 

was the singular stranger? 
Lo ! the old man had departed in some unaccount- 
able manner. 
Strewn with pieces of paper, from end to end, was 

the attic, — 
Remnants of hundreds of bank-notes, thin and 

yellow and faded ; 



140 JONA THAN BLAKE 'S CLOCK. 

Currency Continental, worthless for all but old 

paper ; 
Torn as by one disappointed, and scattered about 

in madness. 

All that remains to be told of this far-stretched, 

curious story, 
Is that, repaired and revarnished, the stately and 

veteran timepiece, 
That since old Jonathan's journey had been in a 

state of disorder, 
Ticked away, as of yore, with solemn, harmonious 

cadence. 



END. 








^^M 



